


Those We Trust

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Injured Sherlock, Lies, Season/Series 03, Torture, planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-09 15:43:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1988547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Mary shoots Sherlock in the chest it's time for Sherlock to determine who to trust and what to do. John wants nothing to do with his assassin wife, there are rumors about Moriarty, and Magnussen is interested in making a deal. Once Magnussen is, to put it politely, taken care of, Moriarty's video goes viral. Sherlock must face a betrayal that England did not see coming and deal with his emotions for John. (Those really have gotten out of hand.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Events in s3 aren't described in detail but they are discussed, addressed, and planned for so having seen s3 will help you understand this story.
> 
> The story is written in parts rather than chapters. This first part addresses what happens after Mary shoots Sherlock but before the confrontation with Magnussen.
> 
> Warnings: In the completed story there will be mild descriptions of torture. I think that everything is mild, but I'd rather be safe than sorry.
> 
> Finally a personal author's note: This story actually wasn't supposed to happen. I was experiencing writer's block on another story and thought I'd do a quick writing exercise. I had 10,000 words written before I went to bed that night. And while I was writing it the story took a turn that I totally did not see coming and don't even really agree will happen in canon. Still, it was kind of fun to write. I'm rambling. I like to ramble about my writing though so I doubt this will be the last time during the course of this fic.

                “Tea?” Mary asked the intruder lounging on her sofa.

                “No, thank you.” Sherlock answered politely. He gestured to the nearby chair and said, “Sit, please.”

                Mary hesitated because she couldn’t imagine anything she wanted to do with Sherlock less than sit and chat. She wasn’t surprised to find that he had broken into the house, although she was a little surprised that he apparently wanted to talk. Idly she wondered if he was aware of the fact that she could kill him. Yes, it was her house but she could easily enough clean the house and get rid of the body. Her face wasn’t plastered on the front of the house.

                She owed him though. After all, he’d told John such pretty lies at Baker Street. It seemed a bit cold-hearted to kill him after all his help, even for her. Besides her orders were to keep Sherlock alive – for now – and she’d nearly failed once. It was a bloody miracle she was alive still. Best not to tempt fate.

                Slowly she sat and returned his steady gaze. Sherlock was staring at her intently and it occurred to her, for the first time, that she had never been a victim of Sherlock’s deducing gaze. She had seen him give it and had heard about how unnerving it was but she had never been on the end of it. The closest she remembered coming to it was when she and Sherlock had first met. The night she had promised to bring John ‘round.

                Finally Sherlock said, briskly, “Tell me.”

                “Tell you what?” Playing stupid almost always worked for Mary – she was a woman, blond, and had a relatively sweet face so people wanted to believe it. There were a few people, however, that it didn’t work on. Unfortunately one of those people happened to be sitting across from her.

                Sherlock gave her a chastising look and said, “Don’t be coy. Tell me why you chose John Watson. Tell me why you targeted him. Tell me why he’s still alive.”

                “Why don’t you read the memory stick?”

                “Because the memory stick will only tell me about your past. I want to know what the hell you’re doing with John.”  
 

               Mary couldn’t help but chuckle in disbelief. Sherlock Holmes was asking for her story? It was ridiculous. So she was a little snarky when she said, “What? Do you want my sob story?”

                “No. I want the truth. Explain to me why I have a scar on my chest, a flatmate estranged from his pregnant wife, a brother with a shaky hand on the world’s panic button because of security breaches, and a blackmailing bastard watching us all with an amused eye!” Sherlock shouted, his voice steadily rose with each word he spoke.

                Mary frowned at him for a few minutes before nodding her agreement. She would rather have him read the memory stick, but she had already calculated that after this colossal fuck-up she was better off with the Holmes’ on her side. Or… at least vaguely in her corner. “You know how you like to go around calling yourself a sociopath?” Sherlock nodded. “Yeah, well I have sociopathic tendencies. I’m not a sociopath – I’ve been tested – I just… lean in that direction.”

                “Is that supposed to excuse your actions?”

                “No. I know the difference between right and wrong and I can even feel guilt. The difference between you and me is that you have to work to have sociopathic tendencies. I have to work not to have sociopathic tendencies. I’m fairly good at it.”

                “Forgive me for being dubious.” Sherlock said flatly as he gestured to his chest.

                “No. I do feel bad for that.” Mary insisted. “But, really Sherlock, you left me no choice.” The look on Sherlock’s face indicated he disagreed. Mary hadn’t actually thought he would agree so she shrugged his disapproval off. “People always think that because I’m what I am then I must have some dark, sordid past. The truth is much more boring. My parents were lovely people, beloved in the community. I grew up on a farm, if you can imagine, where I learned to shoot a gun and hunt. I was the best shot around.

                “I developed such a good reputation that when I was sixteen recruiters came to talk to me about the military. They wanted me to join and become a sniper. I thought it was a fabulous idea but my parents weren’t sure.”

                “It didn’t bother you,” interrupted Sherlock, “to think about killing people.”

                Mary snorted, “No.” Sherlock raised his brows in, what Mary thought was, a very judgmental way. She said in exasperation, “It wasn’t as though I was thirsting for blood. But being able to get paid to shoot a gun? It sounded brilliant. I’m sure my parents would have reconciled to the idea eventually. Queen and country.”

                Sherlock steepled his hands in front of his chin and said, “You’re not military trained, though. Not officially at least. What happened?”

                Mary grinned, “Oh can you deduce me now?” Sherlock gave her a highly unamused look, to which she shrugged. “When I was eighteen a man approached me. I told him I had already spoken to recruiters but he wasn’t with the government. He gave me twenty-five thousand pounds and a head shot of a man. If I killed the man and got away with it then I’d get another twenty-five thousand. So I did it.”

                “Fifty thousand pounds for the first life you took? Impressive number.”

                “Oh Sherlock.” She said softly. “Am I offending your sensibilities?”

                He gestured impatiently and insisted, “Continue with the story please.”

                “Right. Well after I shot the man I met a boy. He could have been a few years on either side of me, honestly. I didn’t know or care at the time.” Mary paused and her brow furrowed thoughtfully. “I knew what I was by that time and sometimes that scared me. But I had no idea what real fear of another human being was until I met him. He was psychopath.”

                “Moriarty.”

                Mary shrugged, “He didn’t give me a name at that time. It wasn’t until later that I started hearing him referred to as Moriarty.   He paid much better than the government.”

                “And it didn’t bother you? The lives you were taking?”

               “Well, I mostly killed bad people. Moriarty didn’t care who he killed but when you deal with bad people, generally they deal with bad people too. So I killed a drug smuggler? So I killed a human trafficker? So I killed a gang member? It’s not as though the world suffered from their loss. By the time I started killing people who could arguably be called good I was used to killing. I mostly dealt with bad people though and I was hardly going to lose sleep over them.”

                Sherlock didn’t find her words particularly comforting. He wasn’t sure what to think of her diagnosis, or where she had gotten it, but there was definitely something off about her. If nothing else her conscience was severely lacking. “Right. So you’re off killing all these people and then what? Decided to take a holiday?”

                Mary grinned, and Sherlock wasn’t sure how to feel about that. It was difficult not to be furious with someone who had lied to you and shot you. However it was also a little more difficult than he had expected for him to hate her. He wanted to hate her – had always wanted that – but there was something about her that made it easy to tolerate.

                Mary sounded amused as she said, “Not exactly.” She glanced around the house and shrugged absently. Sherlock watched her come to a decision and wished he knew what that decision had been. Then she said, “I wanted to retire. People aren’t known to retire from Moriarty though. I assumed I’d be working for him until he killed me. I don’t know how but he found out what I wanted and had someone approach me. They offered me a deal. If I wanted then I would be allowed to retire conditionally. As long as I was willing to carry out another job if Moriarty wanted it then I could be retired. I had to be willing to even burn my new identity if necessary. I had a reputation for being Moriarty’s favorite sniper because I was very good at my job. I figured it would only be a few months holiday.”

                “Hm. But time went by and you got comfortable being Mary.” Sherlock drawled, patronizingly. Then his eyes sharpened and he demanded, “Why? Because of David?”

                Mary gave him a look that spoke eloquently of her pity for him. “No, you stupid boy. I don’t know why everyone always focuses on David.”

                “Oh.” Sherlock gasped softly.

                Mary smiled wryly and nodded. “Yes. Funny, isn’t it? I met David and he was nice. He was very, very, very nice and boring. And very nice.” She paused again and let out a short sigh. Sherlock watched as she chose her words and sorted her thoughts. Then she said, “We dated because, well, he was just so bloody nice so how could we not? I didn’t realise how much more our relationship meant to him than it did me. When I realised that I broke up with him for good. He loved me with everything he had.” Mary shook her head and looked a little sad, “Isn’t that just so ridiculous? David loving an assassin with everything he has? It’s like a bad novel.”

                “Perhaps. It was a good cover though. What difference did it make to a woman with sociopathic tendencies whether the man she dated loved her wholly or not?”

                “You already know the answer.”

                “You fell in love.”

                “Ugh.” Mary made a face and shuddered dramatically. “I hate that expression.”

                “And yet…”

                “I met Janine six months after I met David. I had never been attracted to a woman before. I had never even thought about a woman before. Why would I? I enjoyed sex with men too much to think about changing it up a bit.” Mary’s face softened suddenly and she said, “Janine was lovely. Janine was… one of those stupid, soppy poems that teenage girls moon over and I was the teenage girl.”

                Sherlock couldn’t withhold his wince at that sentence. Mary laughed, “I know! Isn’t it disgusting? But I did fall in love with her. I wanted every single piece of her and, worse, I wanted her to have every single piece of me.” Her face became guarded and her eyes shuttered suddenly. “She couldn’t have all my pieces though. So I didn’t bother with trying for a romantic relationship. It worked out well considering Janine is actually quite straight.”

                “So were you.” Sherlock countered. Then he narrowed his eyes and demanded, “You honestly think you deserve Janine?” He liked Janine. He didn’t want to marry her but he did like her.

                “Oh god no! I don’t deserve anyone, but especially not Janine.”

                “And yet,” said Sherlock sharply, “you’re Mrs. Watson.”

                Mary winced, “Sorry about that.”

                Sherlock waved his hand impatiently and asked, “How did that come about?”

                “The man who approached me about retirement approached me about a job. John Watson.”

                “You were supposed to kill him?”

                “Not exactly. I was supposed to get close enough to him that I could kill him at a moment’s notice. So I did.

               Sherlock leant forward, forcibly containing the grunt of pain that wanted out. “Is Moriarty alive?”

                Mary shrugged, “I don’t know. I don’t! I was just a pawn, Sherlock.”

                Sherlock fell back, not bothering to contain the grunt this time, and stared broodingly at the ceiling. “Oh, I don’t know. You must have been at least a bishop.”

                “A bishop! Do you want me to shoot you again?”

                “Oh good. Let’s make jokes about shooting Sherlock.”

                “Well you called me a bishop.”

                “Well you were hired to kill John Watson.” Sherlock snapped. Mary’s amusement died and she looked away from the furious gaze that had snapped to her. “I don’t care that you shot me. I don’t care that you killed people for money. I don’t care that you worked for Moriarty. I care that you were willing to kill John. Explain to me why I should let you continue breathing.”

                “The baby?”

                “Mary.”

                “I didn’t know John when I took the job.” Mary said defensively. “And it’s not as though I had a choice. He was just supposed to be some man I kept close until I killed. I thought he’d be like David. So nice but boring. Instead he was… he was John.”

                Sherlock looked away because he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep the sneer off his face. “You fell in love.”

                Mary hesitated before nodding. “A bit yes. John was ideal for me to love because I couldn’t give someone every piece of me. Even if I hadn’t been an assassin I loved Janine. There was always going to be a piece of my heart that was solely for her. Despite her not wanting it. John had pieces of himself he couldn’t give too. He loved you but you were gone. He didn’t want to talk about that time or you or anyone from his old life. I had to practically force him to see Mrs. Hudson. It was easy to love John because he didn’t want it all and he had such a big heart while also being rather heartless. It was complex and lovely.”

                “So you had a job to stay close to John Watson. You started dating him, got engaged, I came back,” he bit that word out, “and you didn’t leave.”

                “Well, no. The job wasn’t done. Besides it’s not as though you made a push for him.”

                “Well John’s not gay, now is he?”

                “I have no idea what John is to be honest.”

                Sherlock huffed in irritation before slipping into his Mind Palace, just briefly. He ignored Mary while he stored her information and sorted through details. When he came back there was tea and Mary was sipping it while staring at him thoughtfully. He ignored this in favor of demanding, “Why did you want Magnussen?”

                “He has things on me. I don’t want those things known.”

                “Why are you lying?”

                “I’m not lying.”

               “No, you’re not. Not about him having something on you. But you wouldn’t care about that. It’s not as though you would stay around if he did give the information over to the police. You’re used to living on the lamb.” Sherlock frowned thoughtfully as he sorted things out. “Oh. He has something on Janine.”

                “Yes, very clever of you.” Mary snapped. “Magnussen threatened Janine. I was supposed to… what? Sit around patiently and let you and John muddle your way through this thing? No. I was going to kill him. Then the problem would be gone for good.”

                “Except you didn’t kill him, you shot me!”

                “Well I did tell you not to take another step!”

                “I thought you loved John enough not to murder his best friend!”

                “I did! But you had just,” she paused before deflating and finishing, “proposed to Janine.”

                “You had _married_ John.”

                Mary huffed, “I know that. I tried to make it as easy as possible for you. If you had made the slightest push for him then I would have let him go. We could have remained just friends and I would still have been doing my job. You didn’t though. Instead you flirted with Janine at my wedding.”

                “Again, you had _married_ John.”

                “Now we’re just talking in circles.”

                “Oh my god!” Sherlock cried as he ruffled his curls. It came across as a violent action, which seemed a bit odd to Mary, since she usually associated Sherlock’s hair with being fluffy and heavenly. Suddenly he looked up and bit out, “I preferred you when you weren’t an assassin with sociopathic tendencies.”

                Mary shrugged, “That’s our secret isn’t it? I’m always an assassin with sociopathic tendencies and you’re never a high-functioning sociopath.”

                Sherlock decided not to respond to that bit of nonsense. Instead he ground out, “Why didn’t you shoot Magnussen? Why leave him living if it was so bloody important for you to kill him?”

                Mary gave him a blank look before frowning. Then her face suddenly cleared and she said cheerfully, “Well your point about John getting blamed was actually rather a good one. Although I don’t think anyone would have believed he would shoot you, least of all Mycroft.” Sherlock stared at her sternly during her ramble. Mary held her beaming smile for a few minutes before looking disgusted with Sherlock. She sighed, “You really didn’t read the memory stick. Or do any research on me? Did Mycroft?”

                “I forbade it.”

                “Oh did you? I’m sure he ignored you with relish.”

                “You haven’t been assassinated yet so that’s a good sign.” Sherlock pointed out. “Answer my question.”

                Mary rolled her eyes insolently, because if she was going to be questioned then she was going to answer insolently. Probably not the best strategy for the man you had shot but it was what it was. “I hate assassins who take more than one shot. They open themselves up to a world of ways to get caught. I never took more than one shot and in order to ensure I didn’t get tempted I would load my gun with one bullet.”

              “What if you missed? Or the victim survived?”

                “You learn very quickly not to miss. If something happens though then you make another attempt. Second attempts are always harder than first because you’ve shown your hand. The element of surprise is essentially gone and everything you do has to be on a tighter schedule. If you can’t kill the target on the first try then it’s what you deserve.”

                “Will you be making another attempt on me?” Sherlock asked flatly.

                Mary flinched then looked guilty. “You weren’t an assassination, Sherlock. You were a mistake. I…” She trailed off looking thoughtful. Sherlock waited for her to finish her sentence because he had no doubt that she would. He watched her face very carefully in an effort to determine if her words were sincere or she was manipulating him. Finally she shrugged helplessly and said, “You weren’t the only one who was dealing with out of control emotions.”

                After a moment he decided she was being sincere. Impassively he asked, “Hormones?”

                “Oh my god, you have no idea how much I would love to blame it on the baby. I have a feeling it had more to do with you proposing to Janine. You didn’t even do it well.”

                “At least I finished mine.”

                “Ha, ha. At least I love John.”

                “I like Janine very much! Besides she got a lovely cottage I’m told.” Sherlock said defensively. Then he shook his head and said, “Stop deflecting. Finish your story.”

                “The rest of it you know, or can at least deduce. You came in, I told you not to move or I’d shoot you, _you moved_ , and I shot you. Then I realised I’d made the biggest mistake of my career and decided to go back later for Magnussen.”

                “I lived.”

                "Yes.”

                “Why?”

                “Uh, I didn’t commit surgery. I aimed then I hesitated and I missed.” Mary looked earnest as she said, “I do like you, Sherlock.”

                Sherlock’s mouth tightened and he looked away. Mary had expected a much worse response so she accepted that graciously. He looked back and gave his wrist a light-hearted flick. “Let’s review, shall we? You’re an assassin with sociopathic tendencies. You started working for Moriarty at eighteen. After you retired you met Janine, _fell in love_ , and dealt with her being straight. Then I died and you were called on to keep John close. Not to kill though, just be prepared for it. You fell a little in love with him. I came back and… what were your orders? Did someone contact you and tell you what to do with him?”

                Mary shook her head, “I haven’t heard anything. I made contact with John and that’s been it.”

                Sherlock put his hands in the prayer position beneath his chin and looked up at the ceiling. Slowly he said, “Right. So I came back and you married John. You were onto Magnussen because of Janine… so you lied about using her that night after I escaped from hospital. Not really surprising. I started dating Janine for a way to get to Magnussen and you, presumably, got jealous. You went to kill Magnussen the same night that John and I broke into his office. I proposed to Janine, caught you, you shot me, ran away, and I got a bit closer to death than one would prefer.”

                “Then you lied to John.” Mary interrupted. “You lied and lied. You made me sound like some sort of antihero rather than villain.”

                Sherlock dropped his hands and turned his gaze on her. “Is that how you see yourself? As the villain?”

                Mary shrugged, “Isn’t that what people like me normally are? I did shoot you and I actually like you.”

                “Yes,” muttered Sherlock absently. “That was a bit not good, but I don’t think you’re the villain. Or at the very least you’re not the main villain. Something… something else is going on. Something bigger.”

                Mary watched as Sherlock flung himself off the sofa and began pacing. She didn’t know all that much about his condition but she had a feeling he shouldn’t be exerting himself so much. Mary was smart enough to know that saying so would only be met with a snarl. She was a little worried how Sherlock was going to process this information. She was terrified how John would react when he read the memory stick, because he would. She didn’t doubt that. She only wondered who was more likely to kill her for her past: John, Sherlock, or Mycroft.

                Finally Sherlock whirled around to face her and announced, “This is what is going to happen! If you kill John Watson I will come after you.” Mary nodded at the threat, knowing it was earnest but not how afraid of Sherlock she was. “I’m going to convince John to forgive you. Lord knows how long that will take because he’s being unreasonably stubborn about the whole thing.”

                Mary blinked then said, “Well… I did shoot his best friend.”

                “Doesn’t matter.” Sherlock waved that away carelessly. “I’ll convince him not to read the memory stick because he has the pertinent details. He doesn’t need to know the intimate details of your past jobs. Moriarty,” he trailed off and his sharp eyes caught hers. “Magnussen’s office, was that the first time you aimed a gun at me?”

                Mary shifted uncomfortably and considered lying. Unfortunately she didn’t think she’d succeed at lying to Sherlock about things like this anymore. He’d caught onto her game. She huffed, “I didn’t know who you and John were at that time. You were just photographs until there was the pool.”

                “The old lady?”

                “What old lady?”

                Sherlock gave an unamused smile and bit out, “With the bomb.”

                Mary didn’t have to feign confusion as she stared at him. “Moriarty didn’t call me until the pool. There was another sniper there.”

                “The man who approached you about John?”

                “I don’t know. I never saw him. I was just told that there would be another sniper and I was to keep my gun on you.”

                “The other sniper.” Sherlock whispered to himself. Then he clapped his hands and said, “I’ll take care of Magnussen, you stay away.”

                “I can take care of Magnussen.”

                “I know you can but I need you not to. The only reason – and I do mean _the only reason_ – that you aren’t locked up in some high security secret prison is because I insisted Mycroft leave you. Do not kill Magnussen. I will take care of him.”

                “And get John to forgive me?”

                “Yes.”

                “How?”

                “No idea. Doesn’t matter.” He said cheerfully. “I’m off.”  
  

              Mary watched him leave with a sinking feeling. She wasn’t sure how Sherlock thought that he was going to fix anything. Everything was wrong and complicated and it was mostly her fault. Possibly all her fault. She hadn’t completely decided yet. She never should have tried to retire. She never should have developed feelings for Janine. She never should have taken this job and she definitely shouldn’t have gotten pregnant. Now she had an injured madman running around trying to fix things and that grated on her. She was capable of taking care of things herself. Except when she wasn’t and she shot friends in the chest. Oh bloody hell, maybe she was a sociopath.

 

~~~

 

                Sherlock had strained himself again. The doctors were baffled about his constant setbacks, but that’s what happened when one broke out of hospital so frequently. How was one supposed to get anything done if one was confined though? At least he hadn’t gone into cardiac arrest again. Still if he didn’t give his transport a break it was unlikely he would ever be released from this hell hole.

                His meeting with Mary had been informative at least. Most of her story had been fairly easy to predict. Her love for Janine and her involvement at the pool had been the biggest surprises. The worst part about the whole thing had been his emotional reaction to her. He wanted to hate her, he did hate her in fact. She had shot him and been putting John at risk this entire time. How could he not hate her for that? No matter what her emotional turmoil had been.

                However - the fact that there was a however was bloody infuriating - Mary had been a friend and based on his deductions, which he was frankly still wary of, she’d been mostly sincere. It was the mostly part that Sherlock was particularly wary of. There were lies and holes in her story. The memory stick hadn’t helped fill in any of those empty spaces. Not that he had expected it too; he was certain that Mary had filled it with only what she wanted John to know. (Sherlock had nicked the memory stick from John and read it. Informative but ultimately pointless.) The fact that that had been what she wanted John to know was morbidly impressive.

                Her love for John had been sincere too. It might be considered tepid compared to her love for Janine but it was love all the same. The problem was: she had been hired to kill John at some point in time. The question was: when? It would have made sense to kill John within the first few meetings with Mary Morstan. It would have made better sense to kill John within the first few hours of Sherlock’s return.

                Someone was holding back, waiting for a time they felt was better. Sherlock just wasn’t sure if they were waiting to kill John or himself. He hoped it was himself because John had really been through enough. He didn’t deserve death on top of all that. The main point was that John would be safer with an assassin who loved him rather than one who didn’t.

                Sherlock’s meeting with Magnussen had also been informative. His glasses were ordinary, which meant that he had a remarkable memory. There was no other explanation. His files were genuinely only hard copy and he remembered whatever information he needed. And he wanted Mycroft. That was particularly interesting. Magnussen had gone through all this effort to get to Mycroft? Why?

                Obvious, Mycroft was one of the most powerful men in Britain, although the general masses were too stupid to know that. There were other powerful, publicly powerful, men though. Magnussen wanted Mycroft’s laptop. Mycroft had information Magnussen wanted. But Mycroft seemed intent on protecting Magnussen. He had said that, hadn’t he? ‘Consider Magnussen under my protection’. _What are you up to, brother mine?_

                The door to his hospital room opened and Sherlock took in a deep breath. His brow twitched in surprise and he asked, “How’s America?”

                “I don’t know,” replied a familiar, seductive voice. “I’ve never been.”

                Sherlock turned his head so he could look at Irene sitting in a chair by his bed. Her legs were crossed and she was smirking at him. “Oh that’s right. How’s the afterlife?”

                “I don’t know. I’ve never been.” She gave him a stern look and chided, “I did hear that you took a little stop there.”

                “It was dull,” was the automatic and dismissive response.

                “That’s not funny, you know.” She informed him. Sherlock shrugged because he didn’t really care one way or the other if it was funny. There were much more important things to be thinking about. “I’m not supposed to be in London. Mr. Holmes the Elder keeps too close of an eye on everything here.”

                “He knows you’re alive now.”

                Irene smiled tightly and glanced away. After a moment she asked, “Did he ever believe I was dead? Or was it always an act?”

                “He suspected you weren’t the first time. The second time we had him fooled until you assisted me.”

                “Assisted?” She cried. “I bloody well saved your life.”

                “Well then, the favor’s returned.”

                Irene scoffed, “You’re not still going on about that little problem I had are you?” Sherlock gave her a look that made Irene grin. Her face sobered quickly and she looked him over carefully. “How is your bullet wound healing?”

                “Surprisingly better than the last one I got.”

                “Well at least now you and John have matching scars on your torso.”

                “How on earth is that supposed to be, in any way, comforting?” Sherlock demanded. Irene shrugged, unconcerned with the illogical nature of her statement. “What are you doing here, Irene? I would have thought London too much of a risk for you.”  
 

               “It is. But since neither John nor your esteemed brother has killed the person responsible for this,” she gestured to Sherlock, “I’m forced to come take care of it.”

                “That’s because the woman who did this is… or was, I haven’t really decided yet, a friend.”

                “You need better friends.” Irene insisted flatly.

                Sherlock smiled his most charming smile and replied, “Mycroft thought the same of you.”

                There was a part of Sherlock – a very small part that was mostly locked away deep within himself – that took a little vicious pleasure in seeing Irene flinch. Mostly though Sherlock felt guilty for the low-blow. Damn emotions were still rioting out of control. Irene’s mouth tightened and she announced, “I’m still killing her.” Sherlock was a little confused by the defiance in her voice.

                “She’s pregnant.”

                “I’ll wait until after the baby is born.”

                “She’s also married to John.”

                Irene sighed in exasperation and demanded, “Can the two of you not meet one normal person?”

                Sherlock scoffed, “Dull.”

                Irene put her hands up in a mocking gesture of surrender and said, “Alright. You win. It doesn’t matter how many times she puts you in hospital. I’ll be sure to send you a lovely bouquet next time. Save myself the trip.”

                “Are you planning on helping,” snapped Sherlock, “or just making idiotic statements?”

                “Helping with what?”

                “Tell me everything you know about Moriarty.”

                Irene’s face blanked at the name and she stared at him. She shook her head slowly when Sherlock returned her blank stare. Then she hit him and cried, “She’s working for Moriarty! And you don’t want her dead?”

                “You worked with Moriarty!” Sherlock shouted while he made a grab for her hands.

                “That was different!”

                “In what way?”

                “I didn’t shoot you for one thing.”

                “You drugged me and whipped me.”

                Irene let all the tension out of her body so that Sherlock’s hold on her wrists was the only thing keeping her up. She sounded overwhelmingly disappointed in him when she said, “I do that to loads of my friends.”

                Sherlock gave her a shove so she was sitting down again. They glared at each other for a long time before Sherlock bit out, “Moriarty?”

                Irene was obviously irritated but she answered, “It’s not as though Moriarty and I were friends. I had something that I didn’t know what to do with and he had ideas. We both had our eye on the Holmes brothers so it worked out. Jim was brilliant but he was mad. Honestly I learned more about him while I was helping you than I did when he and I were working together.”

                Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes as he absorbed this information. He murmured, “Tell me what you’ve heard recently.”

                “You know how everyone was always telling us about Moran? About how he was Moriarty’s favorite and he was the key to destroying Moriarty’s web?” Irene asked, kicking off her heels and placing her feet on Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock made an affirmative noise but didn’t react beyond that. “Well, rumor has it that Moran was made up. Moriarty made him up to protect himself.”

                “We already established that Moran was make believe. That’s hardly new information.” Sherlock’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. He kept his eyes closed as he asked, “So who is running the organisation now if not Moran?”

                “Moriarty.”

                Sherlock looked at Irene, who looked smug, and frowned. “What are you talking about?”

                Irene gave him a slightly piteous smile, as though it was absolutely _tragic_ that he didn’t already know the story. It grated on Sherlock’s nerves, partially because he hated not knowing, but mostly because he knew Irene was doing it purposefully. “There’s a story that’s always gone ‘round but no one ever really listened to. People claim that Moriarty isn’t one man but two. Identical twin brothers.”

                “Mycroft would know if there were twins.”  
 

               “That’s what I thought.” Irene agreed earnestly. She glanced away and licked her lips nervously. When she looked back she seemed very concerned. “There are rumors around now. Rumors about people seeing Moriarty, about plans being made, about the Great Sherlock Holmes.”

                “If Moriarty had a twin why on earth would he have allowed me to take down as much of his network as I have?”

                “I don’t know. But whatever reason he’s had is gone. According to rumor he’s coming back. With a vengeance.”

                Sherlock considered the problem for a few minutes. Slowly he shook his head and said, “I need more proof before I believe something like that. Right now I have to focus on Magnussen.”

                “Sherlock”-

                “I have to focus!”

                “I know you do!” Irene cried. “So focus! You don’t think there might be a connection between Magnussen and Moriarty?”

                “Magnussen isn’t a criminal mastermind. He’s a lizard. Besides what he really wants is Mycroft.”

                Irene sighed exasperatedly, “I know that. But don’t you think it’s possible that after all this time someone approached Magnussen? Suggested the ideal way to get to Mycroft Holmes? All anyone has to do is get to you and they’ve gotten to him.”

                Sherlock did not flinch at the implications of that statement. He already knew it was true but he hated hearing people say that out loud. He hated thinking there were people who had figured that out. Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft led lives that were conductive to having openly friendly sibling relations.

                Rather than think about that he focused on Irene’s convoluted theory. He looked as disbelieving as he possibly could at Irene. “You think that James Moriarty’s identical twin brother contacted Charles Augustus Magnussen to consult with him on how to blackmail Mycroft Holmes?”

                Irene leaned forward and quietly said, “I think you jumped off a building and were dead for two years. I think John’s sweet, little nurse ended up being an assassin hired to kill him if need be. I think Jim from IT was criminal mastermind Moriarty. I think that your adorable little line you use is very relevant suddenly.”

                There was a beat of silence before Sherlock said, “When you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” Irene nodded and Sherlock said, “I need to talk to Mycroft. Go and prepare him.”

                Irene glared at Sherlock when he pushed her feet off his bed. She snapped, “Prepare him? How am I supposed to do that?”

                “I don’t know. Invite him to dinner.”

                “Why don’t you invite John to dinner?”

                Sherlock frowned, “Just so we’re clear. I was shot in the chest, there’s an assassin in our intimate circle hired to kill one of us, and Moriarty might be back but you want to take cheap shots?”

                “You started it.” Irene said sulkily as she put her heels back on.

                “Good-bye Miss Adler.”

 

~~~

 

                Mycroft looked up when the door to his study opened. He kept his face blank even after Irene sashayed into the room. She sat in the chair in front of his desk as though she belong there. He wasn’t surprised that Irene had made it past his security. She was clever, everyone who mattered knew Irene was trusted enough to find him, and it had become abundantly clear that there were security gaps in his system. His jaw clenched involuntarily at the thought. Mycroft watched Irene with a heavy lidded gaze for several moments. She smiled archly and he responded by rolling his eyes. “To what,” he asked mildly, “do I owe the pleasure?”

                “I’ve actually become quite fond of Sherlock. He’s an interesting, funny man. The woman who shot him is still breathing so I was curious to know what John Watson and Mycroft Holmes were doing.”  
 

               “I assume Sherlock explained matters to you.”

                “Yes. He sent me here on errands actually. He can be so bossy.” She murmured musingly as she looked away.

                “Possibly why the two of you never would have survived a romantic relationship.” Mycroft offered.

                She smiled, looking across the room at one of his bookcases. “Possibly.” She focused on Mycroft again and her expression turned serious. “Before I tell you what Sherlock wants me to tell you, I have a question for you. How did Mary Morstan get past your security?”

                That was the question, wasn’t it? Mycroft leant back in his seat and folded his hands in his lap as he studied Irene Adler. The two of them hadn’t spent a terribly large amount of time together. There had been a brief period before she died, the second time, where she had popped up more than Mycroft had expected she would. Mycroft had begun to see why Irene Adler would appeal to Sherlock. Personally Mycroft still felt that Sherlock had let himself get too carried away with her. She did have her moments of intellectual clarity.

                He cleared his throat and said, “Sherlock was about to give up a great deal in order to take down Moriarty’s network. He ended up staying gone longer than he predicted, although I told him he was underestimating the man, but the length of time didn’t matter. The primary thing he was giving up was John Watson. There was always a risk, no matter how long Sherlock was dead for, that John would not forgive Sherlock for the duplicity. There were multiple plans in place depending on how events on the roof played out.

                “Each plan had him leaving John based on a lie. John is very loyal so he would not take that well. There was a high probability that John’s sense of betrayal would make Sherlock’s return impossible for him to bear. So when he made a few… requests I granted them. The first was to ensure that everyone in his circle would remain safe. The second was that I don’t subject them to my security clearances. No background checks, no cameras, no unnecessary guards, and most guards were deemed unnecessary by Sherlock. When Mary came along I wasn’t permitted to do a background check.”

                “And when Sherlock came back?”

                “He begged me not to run any checks.” Mycroft said flatly. “There was something there that we saw but Sherlock begged me not to discover what it was. John would be upset and he was already upset. I haven’t read the memory stick yet, Sherlock wanted to talk to Mary, but I did have my PA read it and she is verifying the information on it.”

                Irene sat up, her eyes bright, and asked, “Anthea? Oh I like her.”

                Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed long-sufferingly, “If you could not seduce my staff I would be most obliged.”

                “Jealous?”

                “Hardly.” Mycroft responded, at his most dismissive. “I believe you came here with errands?” Irene looked annoyed, although Mycroft wasn’t sure if that was because he wasn’t jealous or because she was being used as a messenger service. Either way when she began her story she put on every conceivable air, as though her words held the utmost importance. Technically they did, but Mycroft was still amused.

                Twenty minutes later Mycroft was in possession of all the details and Sherlock entered the room. He looked better than he had but he was still too pale. Mycroft glared at him and said, “You are supposed to be in hospital.”

                “Something more important came up.” Sherlock gritted out as he lowered himself into a chair. He narrowed his eyes at Irene and demanded, “Did you tell him?”

                “No. Mr. Holmes and I engaged in much more interesting things than what you sent me here for.” Irene said silkily and winked at Mycroft.

                Mycroft merely looked exasperated and Sherlock ignored her sarcasm. Instead he turned to Mycroft and announced, “We need to come up with a plan.”

                “A plan for what?” Mycroft asked in that pleasant tone that drove Sherlock mad. “Magnussen, Morstan, or Ms. Adler’s fictitious Moriarty?”

                “Preferably all three since I’m fairly certain they’re all connected.”

                “Sherlock”-

                “This is important, Mycroft. Someone sent an assassin after John and it wasn’t Magnussen. He might do questionable things but he wouldn’t actually kill someone. We need to figure out who would come after John and Moriarty wasn’t exactly a friend.”

                “He’s not exactly alive, any more.”

                “Oh for god’s sake!” Sherlock roared. “No one really dies in our world! Irene has been dead twice and I recently came back from the dead. _Of course_ Moriarty might be alive. How, Sherlock? I don’t know! But I have faith that he could do that. So whether Irene’s rumors are about James Moriarty or Moriarty’s twin I believe one of them is coming.”

                “So I should base my plans on your gut feeling?”

                “That’s better than sitting at your desk and doing nothing while Magnussen is out there destroying people’s lives!”

                “Boys!” Irene shouted. “Get it together. Honestly. How the two of you get anything done is completely beyond me.”

                “Says the woman we beat.” Mycroft muttered causing Irene to flinch.

                Irene sulked a bit while she watched the two men glare. It was like dealing with children, Irene thought bitterly. Finally she said, “Use Sherlock as bait.”

                Both turned to look at her with mixed expressions of confusion and disgust. Mycroft sneered, “What are you talking about?”  
 

             “No matter who is alive everyone wants to get to Sherlock for one reason or another. So have him trap Magnussen in such a way that he’ll be in trouble too. If Moriarty is alive he’ll most likely show his hand so that Sherlock will come play. If Moriarty isn’t alive then Mr. Holmes can take care of Sherlock.”

                “It could work.” Sherlock said, his eyes out of focus. Mycroft glared at him but the younger man didn’t notice. “And I’m such a big fish that even if John were with me no one would care. Not really.”

                “We are not using you as bait.” Mycroft insisted. “So many things could go wrong with that plan. The most important one being that it does nothing to take care of Morstan.”

                “Her name is Watson. They are married so no matter what her first name is, her last name is Watson.”

                “Whatever her name she needs taken care of.”

                “Leave her be.”

                “Sherlock,” sighed Mycroft, “I cannot just forget about her. She’s responsible for countless deaths and she was one of Moriarty’s soldiers. I have to do something.”

                “No you don’t.” Sherlock stated. Mycroft closed his eyes in annoyance and sucked in a breath. “She was retired before she was forced to take another job. She was done with the life. She is also carrying John Watson’s child. She is John Watson’s wife and I will not let you take that away from him.”

                Mycroft’s smile was sharp and brittle as he said, “I think John Watson would probably thank me. I would, of course, wait to deal with her until after the baby is born.”

                “No. I am going to convince John to forgive her and they are going to be reconciled. Then they can raise their child together.”

                “To what purpose? She isn’t a good woman, Sherlock. She lied to and betrayed John, she shot you, and she doesn’t seem nearly as repentant as she should. There is no reason to be lenient with her.”

                “John loves her!”

                “He might argue with you over that one.” Irene put in.

                Sherlock scowled at her and said lowly, “This is the life John has always wanted. Meet a woman, fall in love, marry her, produce offspring, and live happily ever after. I will be damned if I let this get away from him.”

                Irene and Mycroft exchanged a glance before Irene suggested, “Maybe he doesn’t want that life anymore.”

                Sherlock stared at her for a minute before he turned to Mycroft and said, “Do anything to Mary Watson and I swear to you, brother dear, that you will regret it.”

                That was absolutely true. It was obvious from the manic look in Sherlock’s eyes, that he would do whatever it took to ensure, what he perceived to be, John’s happiness. Mycroft’s mouth tightened in annoyance because it was going to be difficult to explain why he was letting an assassin go free, especially since he was probably going to have to explain that while explaining why his brother was getting lax punishment. He sighed, “What are we going to have you do as _bait_?”

                “Oh that’s easy,” Sherlock beamed, “treason.”

 

~~~

 

                There were things in John Watson’s life that he regretted doing. Bad things that had been done that kept him up late at night occasionally. Regrets that made him wince and wish he could go back in time to fix. None came anywhere close to encompassing the regret he felt over marrying Mary Morstan. _A.G.R.A_ , to be more accurate.

                He shifted in the uncomfortable hospital chair and wished for the thousandth time that he hadn’t gone through with it. He should have never married her. At the time he’d thought it was the right thing to do. After all he had loved Mary, so it wasn’t as though he were marrying someone he couldn’t be happy with. He would never have proposed to someone he didn’t love. Even though he technically hadn’t finished his proposal he had been on the brink of one.

                He had thought, hoped, assumed, whatever word, that he would be able to be happy with her because he did love her. She was lovely and they got along and it should have been good. It should have been enough. Somewhere in the back of John’s mind he had known it wouldn’t be. He had chosen to keep his promise to Mary because he was a good man and that’s the sort of thing good men did. John had been confident that things would still end well. Especially after he found out Mary was pregnant.

                Then he’d found out about her lies. About how she’d played him for a fool. Why? Because apparently John was ‘addicted to a certain lifestyle’. As if Sherlock Holmes had any room to talk about being addicted to adrenaline. John had never regretted his choice to marry Mary more than when she had confessed the whole to Sherlock. When she had _begged_ Sherlock not to tell John the truth. He wished he could go back and stop himself from saying ‘I do’. Even as he knew that he would love his child fiercely, he wished they weren’t bringing a child into this mess. This bloody awful mess.

                He hadn’t read the memory stick yet because Sherlock had told him to wait. And also Sherlock had stolen it. Honestly he wasn’t sure he wanted to read it. He knew enough about her as it was. Now that he knew the truth about who Mary was he was determined to divorce her. She had lied to him and shot his best friend in the chest. There probably weren’t many people who would argue with him about leaving her. It didn’t matter why she had shot Sherlock, or how ‘surgical’ the shot had been, or even if she and Sherlock had discussed it beforehand. Mary shouldn’t have shot him at all, ever, for any reason, period! He would divorce Mary and they could figure out what to do about raising their child. Mycroft was probably going to want to lock her up anyway.

                “Stop thinking.”

                John cracked his eyes open to see Sherlock was back in his bed. Sherlock was staring at the ceiling, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “Distracting?”

                “Unbelievably.”

                “Well you know,” John groaned a bit as he stretched, “if you would stop sneaking out of hospital and overexerting yourself they would release you.” Sherlock snorted and gave a small shrug. “The only reason that I didn’t go chasing after you is because I know Mycroft is watching you much closer now. Also, you know that if you try to get high again like this I’ll murder you.”

                “Will you?” Sherlock asked dully. “How would you do it? Would it be interesting, John? Dear god please let it be interesting.”

                “It won’t be. It’ll be the most boring murder ever and I’ll confess afterwards so there won’t even be a good chase.” John said firmly. Sherlock put his arm over his eyes, wincing slightly, and moaned loudly. John could practically hear the words ‘oh the agony of me’. “Yeah. Stay in bed, Sherlock. Then you can go home and have somewhere comfortable to lay while you’re in your mind palace.”

                “Transport, John. Hardly matters where I am.” Sherlock grumbled. Then he took his arm away to look at John and asked, “Have you seen Mary?”

                “No. I’m not talking about that.” John stood abruptly.

                “I think you should see her again. Talk”-

                “We’re not discussing this now!”

                “Then when are we?” Sherlock asked, exasperated. “It’s been months.”

                “And you’re still in hospital.”

                “To be fair that’s primarily because I continue to put stress on my body.”

                “To be fair?” John repeated blankly. “ _To be fair?!_ No. Absolutely not. I will not be fair in this.”

                Sherlock huffed as though John was the one being unreasonable. John clenched his hand and wondered how long it would take him to come to terms with himself if he punched Sherlock. Sherlock sighed enormously and looked as put-upon as possible. “John, you’re being unreasonable”-

                “She shot you.”

                “It was surgery”-

                “Oh my god!” John shouted. He turned away from Sherlock and literally had to count to ten or he knew that he would punch a hole in the wall. If he had to hear about how the gunshot had been bloody surgery one more time he was going to crack. Sherlock was mercifully silent behind him. John wasn’t sure if that was because Sherlock had finally learned self-preservation or he was just surprised by John’s strong reaction. It didn’t really matter.

                When John felt he was more under control he turned to find Sherlock watching him warily. Softly John said, “I don’t care how many times you call it that, Sherlock. It’s a bullet wound. She shot you. Okay? She knew I had only just gotten you back and that you being gone was nearly impossible for me to deal with. She knew everything. And she still shot you. No. I won’t forgive that. I can’t.”

                Sherlock opened his mouth, no doubt to argue, but John waved him off. “No. You won’t convince me. Because you weren’t there for it all, Sherlock. I found you in Magnussen’s office, unconscious and bleeding with a bullet in you. I’m a doctor, yeah? I know what to do and where to go to see a surgery performed. I saw them do the surgery on you Sherlock. I watched them dig around in your chest for a bloody bullet that _she_ put there. You’re heart stopped.” John pressed his lips together tightly and shook his head. How could Sherlock not understand this? “You were dead. They declared time of death, Sherlock. I actually _lost you again_. She did that. There is no way in hell I would ever forgive her. I love you.”

                Sherlock reared back at the confession, which was not the reaction John could have hoped for. John half expected Sherlock to short-circuit again and stare blankly at John. Instead Sherlock's eyes were darting around the room rapidly, as though he were looking for something. He was refusing to look at John. There was no doubt in John's mind that Sherlock loved him. John had seen it during the wedding reception. For some reason Sherlock wasn't going to admit to it. Not yet at any rate. Considering the fact that John was still married and his wife had shot Sherlock, John supposed he could understand.

               Sherlock continued to not respond for a remarkably long time. That in and of itself was surprising because Sherlock loved responding. The quicker he was with John the more he seemed to relish it. Just at that moment though Sherlock didn’t make any attempt to speak. Finally he turned his gaze back at John. He just stared at John, studied him, and made lord knows what kind of deductions. It was unnerving having Sherlock not share his deductions with John. For a sudden moment panic gripped John as it occurred to him that maybe Sherlock didn’t trust him. Maybe Sherlock thought that because John’s lying, murderous wife was untrustworthy then so was John. That idea made John’s heart twist uncomfortably, but he ignored it in favor of staring at Sherlock.

                Finally Sherlock said, “There are things you don’t understand about the events that took place. I really think that if you approached her then you would find it easier to forgive her.”

                John nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. Because there Sherlock was, in hospital from a bullet wound, and he was trying to get John to forgive the shooter. It was honestly like one of those horrible, _horrible_ dramas or soaps. “Why are you defending her? She didn’t even defend herself.”

                “What?”

                “That night at Baker Street. She just sat there not saying anything while you told me all about her ‘saving’ you. She didn’t… I can’t forgive her. I don’t even want to.”

                “What about the baby?” Sherlock asked gently. It was not a gentle question, John knew that. It was one designed to cause emotional turmoil. He wanted to stir John up so that John would panic and go see Mary to ensure the baby was safe. John wasn’t going to fall for that, though. By now he’d managed to catch on to at least some of Sherlock’s games. In all honesty John was a little afraid of leaving Mary alone with the baby, even if the baby was a fetus. The rational part of his brain knew that Mary wouldn’t harm her child. It was probably a stupid thing for him to place his confidence in but… well, Mycroft was most likely watching Mary.

                So instead of getting angry or panicking John said, “We’ll work something out for the baby. A system that suits both Mary and myself.”

                Sherlock’s eyes widened and John couldn’t help a smug grin. He’d shocked Sherlock Holmes and no matter what, that was something to be smug about. Suddenly Sherlock slammed his fist onto his bed and pouted, “You’re not reacting the way you ought.”

                “So sorry.” John said unapologetically.

                Then one of the most terrifying things that John had ever seen happened. Sherlock slumped against his bed and looked a bit defeated. “Why,” he whinged, “won’t you forgive her?”

                “Why are you so desperate for me to?”

                “Because I need you to forgive her, John.”

                John paused suddenly because Sherlock was so desperately earnest. Even if Sherlock didn’t care if people were on friendly terms with his attacker, and John admitted that it was entirely likely he didn’t, it was still odd. Why would Sherlock basically be trying to force John to forgive a woman? Yes, Sherlock had taken to Mary much better than he had any of John’s other relationships, but why wasn’t he encouraging the estrangement? John had sort of expected Sherlock to be relieved that they were rid of Mary. He didn’t like dead weight although he did tolerate it occasionally. The same way he tolerated Janine or Molly or Lestrade or anyone really. So why did Sherlock want to keep Mary?

                The answer hit him with such blinding clarity that John actually felt a bit like Sherlock Holmes. How could he not have seen that? Obviously, Sherlock had a plan and that plan involved John forgiving Mary. It was on the tip of John’s tongue to ask what the plan was but John held himself back. Sherlock didn’t like revealing his plans to anyone. It was practically a bloody miracle that Sherlock had come as close as he had to admitting to having a plan. John tried to figure out how forgiving Mary could accomplish her capture. Or anyone’s capture for that matter. He didn’t really see anything but he trusted that Sherlock did. Sherlock had a plan, and he was going to use John, then they’d probably argue, and then they’d most likely make an inappropriate joke. It sound, frankly, wonderful.

                John sucked in a breath and let out slowly, controlled. Once that was finished he said, “Alright. I’ll try to forgive her.”

                Sherlock’s eyes widened and his mouth opened and closed a few times in shock. Clearly he had expected a bit more fight than he’d gotten. John smirked again because, as stated, surprising Sherlock Holmes was worthy of smugness. Finally he cleared his throat and said, “Good. Excellent. When are you going to see her?”

                “Christmas at your parents’.”

                “What?! You’re not going to that.”

                “I am, yeah. You are too.”

                “I’m in hospital,” objected Sherlock.

                John shrugged, “You’re going. So I think you should stop straining yourself and focus on getting better.”

                “But”-

                “Those are my terms, Sherlock. I will forgive Mary but only if we have Christmas with your parents.”

                Sherlock crossed his arms and pouted. He shot a nasty look at John before conceding, “Fine.”

                John smiled his most brilliant smile and said, “Good. I’ll go get your real doctor so he can give you the once over now that you’re back.” As he left the room Sherlock groaned loudly and dramatically. John rolled his eyes but felt an odd giddiness bubble up in him. Sherlock hadn't said he loved him back but it wasn't important right then. The important part was that John and Sherlock were getting back to what they had been. They were on the right track, despite John needing to forgive Mary, Sherlock keeping a plan secret, Sherlock using John in fact, and all of the other bad things happening. Sherlock yelled something insulting once John was in the hall and John did not smile, not even a little bit, and there was no twitching at the corners of his mouth. That absolutely did not happen.

 


	2. Part Two

**Part Two**

                There was always something that Sherlock seemed to miss. _This_ , though? How the bloody, god-awful, buggering hell had he missed this? It made so much sense and was so much safer than what the world assumed. Sherlock had literally acknowledged that Magnussen had an excellent memory. What better way to be a master blackmailer than by having a Mind Palace? Everyone assumed there were literal vaults at Appledore with hard copies of his proof. Magnussen had a Mind Palace and enough contacts to get the proof if he ever felt the need. Brilliant.

                Sherlock had come here to take Magnussen down based on the existence of the Appledore vaults. The vaults don’t exist though and Sherlock had handed over a laptop filled with State Secrets. He had literally committed treason with nothing to show for it. Worse, he had involved John. John wasn’t nearly as publically acknowledged as Sherlock was though. Sherlock felt confident in his ability to convince everyone that John had had no idea what he was doing. The only flaw in his plan was John’s damnable loyalty.

                He could hear John saying something, something about the plan. Plan? The plan was out the bloody window. Sherlock had committed treason, John was too loyal to let Sherlock take the fall, Mary was going to kill Magnussen, Mycroft was going to be forced to go after Mary, and the Watson baby was going to have two parents in prison. Everything was so wrong. They had made contingency plans for if something went wrong. He, Mycroft, and Irene had spent three very intense days coming up with a plan for every scenario they could think of because this was not to be left to chance. They had even consulted Mary on a few plans, much against Mycroft and Irene’s wishes. But none of them had considered the possibility that Appledore was a Mind Palace.

                Sherlock firmly took himself to task for letting his emotions run riot. His brain was on the verge of short-circuiting – _again_ – and he felt out of focus. This was unacceptable. Things were falling apart all around him and there was no contingency plan for this. Sherlock entered his own Mind Palace in an attempt to quickly develop a plan. It would have been so much easier if this revelation weren’t interfering with another plan he had in play.

                _Oh. Yes, obvious._

                Sherlock stood on the patio watching as Magnussen flicked John in the face and said things. He didn’t listen but he thought he heard Janine’s name. John said things too. Then Mycroft showed up and he was saying something too. Everyone seemed to be saying a great deal and Sherlock cared about exactly none of it. He looked at John and he thought of all the ways he had hurt him. All the horrible things he had put this man through and John had always forgiven him. John had always been there no matter what Sherlock inflicted on him. Sherlock had killed himself in front of John (with noble reasons of course) and John had still forgiven him.

                This time Sherlock had let John down. He had… ruined everything. It wasn’t fair because John deserved to have something good. He deserved to have a happy life with Mary and the baby. He didn’t deserve Sherlock constantly causing problems or ‘villains’ constantly thinking him disposable. John Watson was many things but disposable was not one of them.

                Decision made Sherlock nicked John’s gun, said something to Magnussen, and killed a man. Magnussen was not the first man Sherlock had ever killed nor would he probably be the last, but he was the most surprising. Mycroft’s voice was yelling at everyone not to fire and it was the most panicked he had ever sounded. If it was even possible for Mycroft to get him out of this mess it was not going to be easy.

                Sherlock glanced at John, who looked as if he was going to be sick or pass out, and assured him Mary was safe. It was vitally important for John to know that the blackmail on both Mary and Janine was gone. Mary hadn’t killed Magnussen and she didn’t need to. The Watson baby would have both parents.

                Sherlock sank to his knees, arms held up in surrender, and waited for hell to descend on him. Because that’s what was coming. Sherlock had been stupid enough to open Pandora’s Box and there would be consequences. It was enough to almost make Sherlock laugh. After all the men and women he’d killed or taken care of in an effort to destroy Moriarty he was going to be taken down by this one man. This man who was not good but who had set Sherlock up for treason, quite cleverly, and underestimated the extremes Sherlock would go to for John Watson.

                God, he wished everyone would stop yelling.

 

~~~

 

                Mycroft stormed into the holding cell and slammed the door closed. He was showing far too much emotion, Sherlock thought passively. Sitting across the table from Sherlock, Mycroft clasped his hands together in front of his mouth and stared at him. It didn’t really matter to Sherlock what they did so he returned the stare, wondering what deductions Mycroft was making. He wondered if Mycroft could see how empty Sherlock felt. How exhausted he was, the ache that he couldn’t ever seem to shake, and how genuinely finished with everything he was.

                Finally Mycroft asked, “What is your plan?”

                _Concentrate._

Plan? Why did everyone assume he had a plan? Sherlock shrugged slightly and said, “What plan?”

                Sherlock’s tone was flat, not at all the way he was when he was trying to hide his plan. The unease that flickered across Mycroft’s face fascinated Sherlock a bit. His killing a man hadn’t concerned Mycroft nearly as much as the idea that Sherlock no longer cared what happened to himself. Mycroft frowned, “What were you thinking? You murdered a man in front of witnesses.”

                “Appledore was a Mind Palace. What was I supposed to do? If I had just let him go then John would have still been in danger.”

                “Is there no end to the idiotic things you will do in John Watson’s name?” Mycroft snapped. “You committed treason and you killed a man in front of witnesses. Are you really that confident that Moriarty will come back and save you?”

                _Focus._

                Sherlock blinked, his brow furrowed and he stared blankly at Mycroft. His mind was sorting through things in a haphazard way trying to place what Mycroft was talking about. Slowly he repeated, “Moriarty?”

                Mycroft was horrified at the glazed look in Sherlock’s eyes. If the circumstances had been different Mycroft would have demanded Sherlock take a drug test. Sherlock was obviously in _shock._ “Sherlock snap out of this at once.” He commanded sharply. “I don’t have time to deal with you. I have Irene yelling at me to kill Mary, Mary yelling at Irene that she’s going to kill her, John snarling at everyone that looks at him, I’ve already had to stop two plans he tried to implement for your escape, and Mummy and Daddy,” he release a deep breath, “they’re devastated. So you need to stop this right now.”

                “I’m sorry, Mycroft.” Sherlock said dully. “I never meant for any of this to happen. I thought that you and I were clever enough to outmaneuver anyone. I’m sorry.” He closed his eyes and sighed, “You were right. Caring is not an advantage.”

                Mycroft resisted the urge to grab Sherlock’s hand and cling to it. Mostly he was uncertain that such an action wouldn’t further Sherlock’s emotional break. Instead Mycroft said, fervently, “No, I am sorry. It was a ridiculous plan and I never should have agreed to it.” Sherlock kept his eyes shut tightly. “Sherlock, I’ll… I’ll take care of things. They want to send you to prison but I’ll talk them out of it. You’ll be offered the job I mentioned at Christmas. While you’re in the field you’ll take care of it.”

                _Consistency._

                Take care of it. That was code for ‘you’ll outsmart everyone and escape. You’ll live on the run again until things calm down’. Sherlock felt, a little bit, like bashing his head against the wall. It was no longer fun to outsmart everyone. Outsmarting everyone meant spending excessive amounts of time away from John. Outsmarting everyone meant people targeting John to draw Sherlock out. Sherlock was so tired, and he was never tired, all he wanted to do was go home and curl up in his bed and sleep. In that moment Sherlock decided that he was probably done outsmarting people.

                He opened his eyes and met Mycroft’s concerned gaze. “I accept the mission, brother dear.”

                Mycroft’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Sherlock smiled faintly and let his brother deduce whatever the bloody hell he wanted. Mycroft nodded shortly and stood. “I will discuss the new arrangement and let you know when things are in order.”

                “Brother.” Sherlock called. The more Sherlock spoke the more concerned Mycroft became. There was something wrong with Sherlock’s words and the expression in Sherlock’s eyes. “When I’m gone you’re to protect them again. Put them through every single security measure you can think of whether it’s needed or not.”

                “Alright.”

                “And let Mary go.”

                “Sherlock”-

                “Just let her go! I don’t care about the rest of it! Just leave her alone!”

                Mycroft looked down at his shoes trying to reign in his irritation. Sherlock was clearly off balance and his insane determination to protect Mary was beyond Mycroft’s grasp. Quietly, and with a small amount of embarrassment, Mycroft asked, “Why does she deserve happiness but you don’t?”

                In his peripheral vision Mycroft saw Sherlock rear back as though he’d been struck. The silence that stretched between the two brothers was tense and uncomfortable and all the things Mycroft hated. Finally Sherlock said, “You should have dinner with Irene.”

                Mycroft was so baffled by this abrupt change of topic that all he could do was stand there and blink. When he had recovered he burst out, “What? Why on earth would I do that?”

                Sherlock stared at the table in front of him and shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you’ll be better with goldfish than myself.”

                “Sherlock…”

                “Good-bye Mycroft.”

                So Mycroft left because there was nothing more he could do in that room. Sherlock was in shock and Mycroft was worried that he was a danger to himself. The only thing that Mycroft could do for now was try to make the case for sending Sherlock away rather to prison. The hardest part would be keeping John Watson away.

 

~~~

 

                Mary decided she really shouldn’t have been surprised to find Sherlock on her sofa again. Despite the fact that Sherlock was supposed to be in custody. When one’s brother was Mycroft Holmes it was most likely easier to slip out of a prison cell. Mary glanced out the window and wondered if there was security outside the house instructed to keep an eye on Sherlock.

                When she looked back Mary sighed at the sight of Sherlock in his ‘thinking pose’ and wondered if he was still reachable or if he was too deep in his Mind Palace. Sherlock’s eyes slid over to her for about one entire second. Still reachable then. She shut the door and casually asked, “Did John give you a key or something?”

                “No.”

                He didn’t elaborate so Mary decided to assume that he had broken into the house. There was very little she wanted to do less than argue with Sherlock over whether or not he had the right to enter the Watson home whenever he wanted. So she asked, “Where’s John?”

                Sherlock muttered, “Not home. I believe he’s having a meeting with Mycroft over what they’re going to do about myself.”

                “Oh. Are you waiting on him, then? I guess I’ll just go and put on the kettle.” Mary said as she headed in that direction.

                “I have a question!” Sherlock sat upright and set his piercing eyes on her. Mary hesitated because she wasn’t sure she liked the mood Sherlock was in. He seemed… stressed and manic. Mary supposed that was normal considering Sherlock had killed a man and he wasn’t used to that. There was also the fact that Mary was pretty sure Mycroft was going to deport Sherlock for his own good. She wondered, idly, when the last time was that Sherlock had eaten or slept. She raised a brow questioningly.  Sherlock clasped his hands together and asked, “What happened to your parents?”

                There were a number of things that Mary had guessed Sherlock wanted to ask about. Not a single one of those things involved Mary’s parents. She studied him suspiciously because there must be a reason he was questioning it. Surely he still trusted her. Still believed her. If he didn’t then why would he be here? Or, better yet, why would he allow John Watson to stay with her. Mary rolled her eyes and said, “Why didn’t you read the memory stick before John burned it? Or why don’t you have Mycroft look it up?”

                “I don’t want to know what the files say, I want to know what you say.”

                There was a long pause while Mary tried sort out Sherlock’s meaning. She was reluctant to ask purely because the question seemed so random. Random questions, particularly from Sherlock Holmes, were rarely completely random. Still, he had convinced John to forgive her. Who was she to look a gift horse in the mouth? So she answered, “They died in a car accident when I was nineteen.”

                Sherlock’s expression didn’t change as he continued to stare at her. His tone wasn’t exactly sympathetic, but there was definitely something in it, when he said, “That must have been very hard for you.”

                “I haven’t been home since.” Mary answered, watching Sherlock closely.

                Sherlock nodded, “Why would you? You never liked it there anyway, did you?”

                “No. Why are you asking about this?”  
                “There was time.” Sherlock said. He let his head fall back on the back of the couch, flapped a hand and said, “Mycroft is being boring. He only lectures me when he comes to see me. That’s why I had Mycroft tell John he wasn’t allowed to see me. All John would do is lecture me.”

                Mary knew that wasn’t the complete truth. The complete truth was probably closer to the fact that Sherlock had shot a man because of his love for John, and now he was leaving him behind. Mary supposed she could relate because of Janine. “How are your plans going for… whatever punishment Mycroft deemed necessary?”

                “Exile.” Sherlock announced. He sat up and said, “Mycroft has deemed my exile appropriate punishment.”

                So Mary had been right. She wondered how John would take that news. Or was taking that news. She hadn’t actually seen John since Sherlock shot Magnussen. Even though John had forgiven her Mary knew it would take time. “I’m sorry.”

                Sherlock stood up and shrugged, “It’s how these things go.” He paused on his way out the door and said, “I’m counting on you to ensure John doesn’t feel the need to break into a crack den in a month’s time. Yes?”

                “Yeah.” Mary nodded. Sherlock’s face moved in a way that might be describe as a smile, by some people, and then he was gone.

                Mary stood there for a few minutes after Sherlock left. She stared into to space and let herself get lost in thought. There had been something off about that meeting. Something about Sherlock’s behavior that didn’t sit right with Mary. It was silly to think that, because Sherlock had been her crusader from the beginning and John had forgiven her. Why would that have changed? After gnawing on her lip for a minute she made a decision and grabbed her mobile.

 

~~~

 

                Protecting one’s baby brother would be immeasurably easier if one could control one’s baby brother. Mycroft had known that from the moment Sherlock was six months old. Sherlock had been fascinated by the bees buzzing around and kept reaching for them. No matter how many times Mycroft told Sherlock to stop or he’d be hurt, Sherlock continued reaching for the bees. Then Sherlock’s baby hand was stung and he wailed about it for hours. Mycroft had hoped that would put an end to any attempts to touch things babies shouldn’t touch. Until the next day when Sherlock reached for the bees again.

                Mycroft had gone along with the plan for Moriarty, had even helped plan parts of it, in an effort to help and protect his baby brother. Even as he was executing the plan Mycroft had known it was dangerous and dramatic. There was always the hope that if he accommodated Sherlock, helped him, protected him, then Sherlock would stop reaching. Until Magnussen. Once again Mycroft had gone along with the plan, had even helped plan parts of it, but his efforts were not enough.

                It was never enough. It hadn’t been with the bees, or other children, or drugs, or Moriarty, or Magnussen, or even John. Despite every detail Mycroft orchestrated to protect him, Sherlock always managed to hurt himself. Physically, emotionally, mentally. When prevention did not keep Sherlock safe the best Mycroft could offer was clean up. He scraped the stinger out of Sherlock’s hand, he forced Sherlock into rehab countless times, he ensured those in Sherlock’s circle survived and, to the extent possible, thrived during Sherlock’s absence, and now he had convinced the government to exile Sherlock.

                Exile was probably not the best idea for Sherlock, given his mental state, but Mycroft saw no other option. Too many people wanted justice for the murder of Charles Augustus Magnussen, even as they profited from his death. So tomorrow Sherlock would get on an aeroplane destined to take him on, what amounted to, a suicide mission. Mycroft did not doubt that Sherlock was capable of escaping with minimum damage to his person. The real question was: how much damage would Sherlock allow before he left. Mycroft was very afraid that Sherlock would allow himself to be hurt much more than he should.

                It was impossible to talk to Sherlock anymore though. He was illogical and emotional. Neither Holmes was especially adept with emotions since they had spent most of their lives suppressing emotion. Logical thinking was hindered by emotion. Sherlock was providing an excellent example of that, in fact. He had tied himself up in a knot over John Watson (and, to a lesser extent, Mary Watson nee Morstan aka A.G.R.A) and Mycroft had no idea how to help untangle him. The fact that Sherlock did not seem to want to be untangled only made things much worse.

                The door to his study opened and Mycroft sincerely regretted giving her access to his house. He did not wish to see her at the moment. He turned from the window to glare properly at Irene Adler. She offered him a smile and that made his temper flare. On top of everything else he was dealing with he did not need _this_.

                “What are you doing here?”

                “I came to see how you are doing.” She answered calmly. Mycroft was in a foul mood but she wasn’t letting that cow her. She never did. “So,” she asked, “how are you?”  
 

               “For the last time I am not going to kill Mary.” He said dully, because he did not want to talk of emotions or sentiment. Although the likelihood of the conversation not veering off into at least one of those subjects was very low. “I promised Sherlock I would leave her be. I am quite done with you harassing me about that.”

                “I didn’t come here to do that.” Irene insisted. “Although you do seem to promise Sherlock an awful lot of impossible things.”

                The harsh words died on his tongue as he saw genuine concern flicker across her features. She honestly cared for him and that made things worse. Which was illogical. “The promises I make to Sherlock are no concern of yours. Much in the same way your interactions with my brother are no concern of mine.”

                Irene blinked in confusion and actually looked around the room as though seeking answers. Her brow furrowed as she said, “Sorry? Are we honestly going to discuss my relationship with Sherlock at a time like this, Mycroft? I would have thought that you would want to discuss something more practical. However if you are determined to be a fool then be my guest.”

                “A fool?”

                “We already discussed this. Sherlock was fun and interesting but that was it. He’s gorgeous so of course I wanted to have him, but it turns out I like him much better as my friend.” She shrugged, “I wouldn’t have expected it to be so, but so it is.”

                “’Good-bye, Mr. Holmes’.”

                Irene scoffed, “You aren’t honestly going to be upset with me for surviving.”

                Before he realised what he was doing Mycroft slammed his hand on his desk, startling Irene. She stared at him with wide eyes and Mycroft felt himself heaving for breath. This was the exact reason he avoided emotion. His lapse surely had to be a sign of an impending apocalypse. “You contacted Sherlock,” he said softly, dangerously, “for help.”

                “No.”

                “I have evidence contrary.”

                “Well your evidence is wrong. I suggest you find someone more reliable. I did not contact Sherlock, although I damn well accepted his help. If you expect me to apologise for that then you are delusional.”

                “I don’t want you to apologise at all. I simply wish you would explain why the bloody hell you thought of Sherlock!” He was yelling now. He never yelled, not really.

                “ _I didn’t_.”

                “Miss Adler…”

                She flinched at the title when she had only ever been Irene in this house, but both ignored the reaction. Her mouth tightened and for a fleeting moment Mycroft wondered if she would strike him. Instead she bit out, “Kate.”

                Mycroft would never admit it but he actually had to pause to place the name. “Your assistant?”

                “Yes.” Mycroft frowned dubiously at her, which caused Irene to roll her eyes. “I believed I had the situation under control. Kate was not so confident so she contacted Sherlock for help. I suppose it was a good thing since he saved me. Not that I would admit to that, ever.”

                The part of Mycroft that had wondered why Irene had called on and trusted Sherlock instead of himself lightened. He was still irrationally angry, but it was lessened. The fact that Sherlock’s presence had been the cause of an assistant was tolerable. He told himself that none of this mattered and he needed to focus on Sherlock instead. That was not what he said though. Rather he said, “He was on your mind. You thought of him in your last moments. You sent him a good-bye text message.”

                Irene stared at him, mouth hanging open, and looked so shocked that Mycroft was secretly a little proud of himself. She slowly shook her head as her eyes continued to scan his face. “No. Your anger is not centered on that. Tell me that your anger isn’t based on some idiotic idea that because I texted Sherlock he meant more to me.”

                “Of course he meant more to you than I did! There was nothing to care about between us.”

                Irene’s reaction was less than satisfactory because she didn’t become enraged or emotional. Instead a calmness seemed to overtake her as she stared at him. “You think that I didn’t text you because you meant nothing to me? You think that if you meant something to me then I would have texted you? It would have been acceptable to you if in my last moments I had considered for even a breath of a moment sending you a good-bye through text message? What did you want me to do? Text you ‘Good-bye Mr. Holmes’?

                “You blundering idiot! The whole reason I sent Sherlock a text was because our relationship allowed it. It could be fit into four words. How the bloody hell was I supposed to fit you into four words?! You mock Sherlock and John for their inability to admit their feelings for one another, but you have the same inability.”

                “That would imply I have feelings for you.” Mycroft said viciously. It was mean and irrelevant at the moment but he was often vicious at moments like these.

                Irene sucked in a breath and crossed her arms. His hit had stuck through. “I’m not going to say something mean back. You can abuse me if you wish but I won’t respond. Not when I know you’re anxious over your brother’s departure for a ‘top secret’ mission tomorrow.”

                She wasn’t supposed to bring that up and it annoyed Mycroft that she had. The whole situation annoyed Mycroft because it was founded on emotions. He had not spent his life learning to contain his emotional response just so Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes could undue him. “It’s fine.” He murmured dismissively.

                “It is many things, fine is not one of them.”

                “I find it odd that you came here to comfort me,” Mycroft said suavely, because he wanted to hurt her again, “when you are the one who put the damn idea in his head in the first place.”

                This time his hit missed the mark. She was annoyed but she was not hurt or even angry. Instead she rolled her eyes, as though his bringing it up were a nuisance to her. “I never said he should commit treason and I never said he should commit murder.”

                “No, you blithely suggested he use himself as bait. As though that were a logical course of action. As though Sherlock were in any state to do something like that.” Mycroft was shouting. The very little control over himself he had had was fading quickly. He could feel it but couldn’t stop it. Good lord he was becoming like his brother.

                “It was a better idea than letting Sherlock run off doing god knows what. You knew he was going to do something stupid, Mycroft. You never would have let Sherlock carry out this plan if you hadn’t thought that it was better than his alternative.” Irene said calmly but with sharp undertones. She held up her hands and shrugged, “I made a mistake. We all did. I’m sorry for that but don’t you dare yell at me for trying to protect him as best I could.”

                “I find it amusing that you are so very concerned about protecting Sherlock when the only reason you met him was because you wanted to beat him.”

                Irene crossed her arms and looked away. For a while Mycroft wasn’t sure if she would even answer. She seemed to be debating with herself about the best thing to do. Finally she said, “I don’t have many friends.”  
  

              “I thought you had loads of friends. You certainly mention how often you drug and beat them.” Mycroft interrupted.

                “Those aren’t my friends. Those are clients or acquaintances or people I’m attracted to. My lifestyle doesn’t exactly leave me much room to make friends. Besides people seem to get so upset when you’re a little mean to them. Sherlock is mean right back.” Irene explained stiffly. “I like him.”

                “Yes, you’re SHER-locked if I remember correctly.”

                Irene huffed in exasperation and demanded, “Why are you jealous of Sherlock? All of the other people that most would say you had a legitimate reason to be jealous of and yet you choose Sherlock. Why?”

                Mycroft stepped closer to her, invaded her space, because it was important for reasons he didn’t care to think about. Her perfume was the same as it had always been and for one insane moment Mycroft wanted to touch it. He wanted to pretend he could forget about the mess that was his brother and talk with Irene. Watch her make ruthlessly clever arguments and tease him about sensuality and all of the other horridly sentimental things that had somehow taken place in their abbreviated acquaintance.

                “He’s the only one I don’t trust.” The words were spoken softly, but the meaning behind them was dangerous.

                Hurt flickered across Irene’s face as she realised that Sherlock was the only one Mycroft didn’t trust her with. “No,” she agreed, “you probably shouldn’t. After all my original lust for him has lasted all this and thrived. I’ve fallen madly in love with him despite the fact that he’s an arrogant, know-it-all, cold-hearted bastard. I suppose this is another way you can gloat about having beaten me.”

                She wasn’t talking about Sherlock. He recognized that and hated it because he didn’t want to discuss his feelings. However he knew that he had said the wrong thing. From the moment Irene had walked into the room he had said the wrong thing. Emotions. So, instead of rationally talking, Mycroft sneered “You aren’t going to scold me for bringing this up the night before Sherlock is set to leave?”

                Irene smiled tightly and shook her head slightly. Mycroft watched, irritated and uncertain and exasperated at being uncertain, as Irene walked across the room to the door. She paused before she left to look at him once more and said, “No. I came because I was concerned about you. That was a mistake, I see that now. Good-bye, Mr. Holmes.”

                Mycroft stood there for many minutes staring at the closed door. He hated her with every fiber of his being. The severity of his animosity towards Irene Adler was staggering to him. He had had no idea it was possible for a person to feel so much towards another person. How dare she come into his house and judge him or his life? She was the one who used his brother to fake her death, faked her death without telling him, and only reappeared to help his brother.

                He sat behind his desk and turned his mind over to the bureaucracy of government life. Irene Adler was a distraction in his life that he did not need. Emotions were too volatile to be dealt with in a logical manner. The only thing Irene Adler did was delve up every volatile emotion Mycroft had under tight control. She was gone and he was glad because he didn’t need her wreaking havoc.

                It would have been so much easier if he did not desperately want her wreaking havoc.

 

~~~

 

                Irene felt a small amount of guilt over her meeting with Mycroft. It poked and pinched at her as she got into the car waiting on her and drove away. Ignoring all of that she took out her mobile and waited impatiently for it to be answered. When it was she said, without preamble, “He is ruffled. – No, of course the conversation didn’t go as planned. None of the truly distressing conversations ever do. – Oh for god’s sake, this is hardly the first time I have done something like this. I am not an amateur. – Yes, alright, I will. I was just calling to tell you how it went.”

                She hung up the phone in irritation and her conscience took another poke at her. She wasn’t exactly sure what the plan was or why Mycroft needed distracting, but it was part of the plan. Irene felt a bit regretful over having to deal duplicitously with Mycroft but there wasn’t much choice. It would have been easier to accept, she imagined, if the conversation hadn’t taken such a personal turn. Her relationship with Mycroft was complicated even on the best days. The fact that he had brought it up tonight somehow made her guilt worse than if they had only discussed Sherlock.

                There was no time to sit and ponder the workings of her relationship with Mycroft though. Instead she sent a quick text while forcing any feelings somewhere deep down inside. (Wouldn’t Mycroft be proud?) After all, she was not a good person and had never claimed to be one. Mycroft really should have known better than to trust her in any way, no matter how insignificant.

 

~~~

 

                “Sherlock?” Molly’s voice echoed slightly in the nearly empty room. She winced at how timid she sounded. She was much better about being brave than she had been but sometimes she couldn’t help but be her old, mousey self.

                Sherlock had been laying on a bed in the room, the only piece of furniture, but he jumped up at the sound of her voice. His eyes were bright and he smiled largely at the sight of her. “Molly! Wait. Where is he?”

                “Getting a pat down. Patrick thought he looked suspicious.”

                Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned loudly. “Idiots. As if Lestrade is capable of anything more dastardly than refusing to pet a kitten.” Molly’s brow furrowed at that odd comment but she decided not to ask about it. Sherlock had moved on anyway. He was crouched by a pile of papers off to the side of the room. After rifling through them for a few minutes he cried, “Aha!” He grinned at the letter fondly then stood. “Before we begin I want to ask you to give this letter to Mrs. Hudson.” Molly took the envelope and stared at it blankly. After a moment Sherlock said, hesitantly, “Please?”

                Molly smiled, “Of course. I’m just a little surprised you thought to send her something.”

                “Well… you know, it’s as good an excuse as any for your presence here.”

                Sherlock looked so young suddenly that Molly wanted to hug him. It was a silly thought and he probably wouldn’t appreciate it. Ever since his return, though, Sherlock had seemed so lost. It wasn’t the angry and cold lost he had been before he had met John. This lost was so much more desperate and it hurt Molly to see it. She wasn’t in love with Sherlock any more, not really, but he was still her friend. She wished she was smarter so she could say something to help him, but she had never been very good at knowing what to say to help Sherlock.

                Lestrade entered the room with a heavy scowl and Patrick trailing behind him. “You know, Sherlock asked me to come see him. Do you really think he would have done that if I were a terrorist?”

                “Yes.” Patrick answered blandly. “We can’t be too careful, sir.”

                Sherlock scowled, “Get out.” Patrick didn’t seem very impressed by Sherlock’s hostility but he left all the same. “I hate this place so much,” muttered Sherlock.

                “So why did you drag us down here?” Lestrade demanded.

                Molly hit his chest and gave him a look, which Sherlock recognized as the look John gives Sherlock when he has done something emotionally wrong. Sherlock rolled his eyes because Molly and Lestrade were so unbearably obvious about everything. He did not have time for their budding romance. Sharply, much more so than he had intended, he said, “I need your help.”

                Both turned their attention back to him. Lestrade frowned at him, looking suspicious. Sherlock allowed that that was a fair reaction considering how often Sherlock’s ask for help had led to an embarrassing situation for Lestrade. Molly paled and looked at him with large eyes. Quietly she asked, “Am I going to have to break the law again?”

                “Possibly.”

                “Sherlock!” Lestrade cried.

                “No, it’s fine. You will too.” Sherlock said soothingly. Lestrade glared at him but Molly bit her lip to prevent a laugh, so Sherlock decided the conversation wasn’t lost. He cleared his throat and said, “Listen, normally I wouldn’t bother with this but because of John I feel the need to warn you.”

                “Does John know about it this time?” Molly interrupted hopefully.

                Sherlock seemed baffled that she would eve think to ask that. He frowned and said, “No of course not. If he knew about then why would you be here?”

                Molly nodded, resigned, but Lestrade demanded, “Why doesn’t John know about it? What does John think is going on?”

                Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but snapped it shut. His brow furrowed and he said, thoughtfully, “I haven’t the faintest.” He honestly didn’t know what John thought was happening or why John had originally agreed to the plan. Well, agreed was perhaps too strong of a word. It was more that he had acknowledge that Sherlock had a plan. Probably. Actually that was incredibly trusting and stupid of John. Sherlock shook his head because he didn’t need more pointless thoughts filling his head. “Neither John nor Mycroft know what’s going on.”

                Lestrade snorted and it became abundantly clear that Molly and Lestrade were going to constantly interrupt. “How could you pull one over on Mycroft?”

                “He thinks I’m having an emotional break.”

                “Why?”

                “Partly because I am having one and partly because I want him to believe I am having one.” Sherlock replied dismissively.

                Molly and Lestrade exchanged a look that Sherlock wanted to ignore. The last thing he wanted was to delve into the details of his real emotions. His plan was a good one but it was extremely draining. He wasn’t used to having so many strong real emotions and he wasn’t accustomed to pretending to have so many strong fake emotions for so long. It all might have been more bearable if he and John were still close, because most things were bearable with John, but Sherlock was enforcing a necessary distance.

                It was completely unfair that all of this should happen and John should confess his love. There wasn’t enough for Sherlock to deal with? He didn’t have enough problems concentrating on all of the lies and secrets and betrayals? Everything he wanted when he came back had been offered to him and Sherlock had needed to insist that now wasn’t the time. Stupid, sodding Moriarty. Sherlock was actually very done with all of this. He still loved puzzles and the chase, but he hated hunting.

                “Sherlock?” He glanced at Lestrade and Molly’s concerned faces. Firmly Lestrade said, “You need to tell John.”

                “No.” Sherlock replied stubbornly. It was the height of selfishness to deny that request. All of the other people he was putting at risk, people he cared about but didn’t like admitting he cared about, and he refused to endanger John. It was made even more ridiculous by the fact that John had been trained to deal with dangers situations by the army.

                “You have too.” Lestrade sounded angry now. “You broke his heart last time you did something stupid like this.”

                Sherlock laughed and it was bitter and hollow and he hated himself for giving into it. His real emotions were peeping out and he was having trouble keeping them hidden. They were all so mixed up together. “I am very aware of the pain I caused John. I am very aware of the pain I caused everyone. I do not need you telling me with your arrogant, self-righteous, indignant words how badly I hurt people. If you’re so bloody angry with me then please leave.”

                “Sherlock.” Molly murmured.

                “Quite frankly,” he barreled on, “I don’t have time to deal with you or these sodding emotions. So if you are only capable of standing there and exasperating my already out of control self-control then get out!”

                Lestrade stared at Sherlock’s heaving form and looked sad. It reminded Sherlock of the way Lestrade would look at Sherlock whenever Sherlock was found in a crack house. “Sherlock,” Lestrade said solemnly, “I think you should tell John, but I’m not gonna leave you.”

                The words caused an uncomfortable pain in Sherlock’s chest that he didn’t really understand. He decided that when this was over he would ask John about it. John would most likely say it had been caused by something stupid but Sherlock would accept it. For now though he ignored it and gave a slight nod.

                “The warning now.” He gazed at them solemnly and said, “Something big is coming and it’s not going to be pleasant. Helping me will be extremely dangerous and I cannot guarantee your safety. I think it’s highly likely that someone will get hurt. If my plans go successfully that someone should be me but one never knows. Also when Mycroft and John find out you helped me they might be a bit… murderous.”

                “What do you need?” Lestrade asked.

                Sherlock was momentarily taken aback by how quickly Lestrade answered, which was stupid because Lestrade had just said he wouldn’t leave. There was another uncomfortable pain in his chest because Lestrade had always been there for him, had always done whatever he could to help Sherlock. He glanced at Molly and she nodded her confirmation. He grinned, “Excellent. The first thing you’re going to need to know is who is on which side. Because, I have to say, I seem to have people betraying me right and left.”

 

~~~

 

                _Focus._

                Leaving England again was not something Sherlock was looking forward to. He had never admitted it out loud but he had missed London. And Baker Street. And the people in his life he had tended to overlook. And John. Probably especially John. The idea that he was leaving London for a mission for Queen and country was a little grating to Sherlock. He had done some of the most important people in the British nation an enormous favor by killing Magnussen and he was being exiled.

                Mycroft said nothing but based on the route the driver took orders had been given to take the long way to the aeroplane. The gesture had been a genuine one but it almost made things worse. Seeing everything he was giving up a second time, acknowledging that London would continue on without him, admitting that this may be the last time he sees London. Because he had no idea if he would be back or not.

                If Moriarty came back then Sherlock would be called on to deal with him. If Moriarty didn’t come back then Sherlock was expected to escape from his mission and live on the run. Mycroft would do want he could to enable Sherlock to come back but it would take time. Sherlock was tired and didn’t feel like outsmarting idiots anymore. It had lost its flare.

                _Wrap it up in the truth._

                He had worked while he had been dead because he had expected to come home. It had been naivety, but he had sincerely believed that he would come home. One could argue that he had come home but one would be wrong. Sherlock had fought all of those people with the sole purpose of coming home, only to find John furious and engaged. It had been selfish, Sherlock realised now, to have expected John and his comforting presence to be there waiting.

                If Sherlock had hated Mary then the whole thing could have been tolerable. He could have manipulated John into getting rid of her. Instead Sherlock had liked her and John seemed happy. So Sherlock decided it was enough simply to have a happy John Watson in his sphere. Unfortunately during his time away Sherlock had been forced to acknowledge exactly how much John meant to him. He had expected to come home and have the ability to confess his feelings. John, regardless of his own feelings, would have helped Sherlock.

                Then John had attacked him. Then John hadn’t spoken to him. After two years away Sherlock had nearly lost John because, apparently, it was not okay to save John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson’s life. (He was paraphrasing.) The idea that Sherlock would have to go the rest of his life without John in it had been paralyzing. So when John had shown up Sherlock had decided friendship was enough. The rest were useless emotions that he could easily keep under control.

                He had not expected how difficult it would be to watch John interact with someone else he loved. Nor had he realised how difficult it would be to participate in John’s wedding to someone else. Personally, Sherlock didn’t care about weddings very much. Dull religious ceremonies, pointless government paperwork, and ‘sacred vows’ that were easily broken. So the sight of John saying ‘I do’ should not have created any sort of visceral reaction for Sherlock. It had though.

                At the reception Sherlock had let his mask slip accidentally and momentarily. The look of terror and confusion on John’s face when he realised Sherlock loved him spoke eloquently of John’s feelings. The confirmation that John didn’t love Sherlock, not in the way Sherlock desperately wanted him to at least, had been disappointing. Before that moment he had contemplated telling John about his feelings simply so John could help him cope. John was very good at sorting out Sherlock’s _emotions_. After seeing the proof John didn’t feel the same way, however, it had turned out to be surprisingly difficult to say anything else. John had made the claim that he did love Sherlock in hospital, but Sherlock was dubious.

                For years Sherlock had spent his time alone. He hadn’t let anyone in, not even the people one might claim were his friends, and he had been bloody miserable. At the time he hadn’t realised how miserable and lonely he had been. When John had come into his life he hadn’t thought much of the addition. He hadn’t thought that John would become necessary for his own happiness. He hadn’t even known that he could be happy anymore. The only thing that had helped Sherlock survive their time apart had been the knowledge that John would be waiting for him.

                And he had been in a manner of speaking. He had been waiting for him with a woman by his side. He no longer lived at Baker Street. His soothing presence was doled out sparingly. The intervals between Time With John and Time Without John were unacceptable. John was the best Best Friend a person could have and Sherlock had wanted so badly for that to be enough. If it had been under normal circumstances it would have been enough. Now, with Sherlock run down and tired, it hurt more than anything.

                At the tarmac Sherlock asked Mycroft for time alone with John, because he was not saying good-bye in front of his brother and John’s wife. Mycroft had looked so nonplussed that Sherlock had almost been amused. Sherlock still believed that Moriarty was coming but he didn’t know when. Would it be before he got on the plane, in a month, in six months? That part of the situation was impossible to plan. Every word of good-bye made Sherlock feel a little hollower inside.

                He did not want to be separated from John again for any length of time. All Sherlock wanted was to confess his love because he hated carrying around that burden. When the moment came, though, Sherlock opted out. He couldn’t bring himself to lay that burden at John’s feet. Not when Sherlock was going off and who the hell knew what would happen. Instead he made John laugh.

 

~~~

 

                The plane took off while John and Mary watched it together. _Turn around, turn around. You bastard, turn around_. Sherlock wasn’t flying the plane but John still found himself begging Sherlock to turn around. There was no possible way that Sherlock’s plan involved leaving John behind, again, married to Mary. The longer the plane was gone the stronger the sinking feeling in John’s stomach became. Every second that went by screamed ‘this is it. Sherlock is leaving again’.

                Mary took his hand and said something but he didn’t listen. This was wrong. They couldn’t possibly have gone through all of this just to have everything fall apart again. John had just given up hope of Sherlock coming back right away when Mycroft exited his car. Moriarty was back. John had never pictured there being a time when he would be relieved that Moriarty was back, and yet there he was grinning about it. Because Moriarty coming back meant Sherlock coming back.

                It seemed to take forever before the plane landed again. Sherlock came out with the familiar look of excitement over a case thrumming through. He bounded down the steps but Mycroft cut him off before he could make his way to Mary. Mycroft looked irate as he demanded, “What are you planning, brother mine?”

                Sherlock scoffed at him and gushed, “I have no time for you, Mycroft. _I_ have a criminal mastermind to catch!” He spun away from Mycroft, causing his coat to flare in an appropriately dramatic way. “Coming, John?”

                “Oh god yes.” John answered, following without hesitation. It did occur to him to consult Mary but he couldn’t be arsed to follow through with that thought. He caught up to Sherlock, practically bouncing with joy, and shook his head. It wasn’t proper but it was familiar. “You seem more like your old self. Did you miss Moriarty that much?”

                John honestly hadn’t expected the question to come out sounding bitter. That surprised him. He hadn’t thought he would be bitter over Moriarty still but he was. Sherlock stopped abruptly and grabbed John’s arms. He gave John a searching look before asking, “Do you remember when I told you that there were things about the events that you didn’t understand?” The night John had admitted he loved Sherlock. John felt himself blush a bit but nodded. Sherlock hesitated before he said, “Good. Let’s go.”

                John rolled his eyes because of course Sherlock would think saying that would be equivalent to a confession of love. As he followed Sherlock John idly wondered if it said something about himself that it was kind of true. Not that it mattered at the moment. The most important thing was that he and Sherlock were working together still. They would hunt for Moriarty together and John would not let Sherlock out of his sight.  


	3. Part Three

                There was noise coming from somewhere but Sherlock could not identify from where. He couldn’t tell what the noise was either. It was most likely someone’s voice but his mind was too muddled to be able to tell. This time he wasn’t faking how heavy his mind felt. He had genuinely been drugged. He assumed that Moriarty was responsible although he wasn’t entirely sure how this had been managed. That infuriated Sherlock.

                The last thing he remembered was John receiving a phone call saying Mary was in the hospital and something was wrong with the baby. John had refused to go unless Sherlock went. In all fairness the last time they had dealt with Moriarty Sherlock had used someone else’s supposed injury to get rid of John. This time it hadn’t been Sherlock who had come up with the story.

                That was probably the most galling part of the whole thing. Sherlock had known that there was something else going on. He had been on high-alert. Despite that someone had still gotten close enough to him to inject him with something and capture him. Panic shot through Sherlock had the idea that John had been captured too. He forced his mind to shift into focus and bring himself fully into consciousness.

                “Sherlock. Sher-lock!” A familiar voice said in sing-song fashion. Why were they always so bloody musical? Was there something about his name that made criminals feel compelled to burst into song? How hideous. “Wake up, Sher-lock.”  
 

                Dear god, maybe if he opened his eyes she would stop singing. Slowly, so very slowly, Sherlock pealed one eye open. It fluttered closed immediately. Jesus, it was bright in the room. That or he was experiencing oversensitivity to light. That was entirely plausible because he had no idea what he had been injected with. His brow twitched as he made a second attempt to open his eyes. Maybe her singing wasn’t so bad.

                “Sheerll- ooock!”

                Never mind. He opened his eyes with an overly loud gasp and blinked rapidly. This time he managed to keep his eyes open. He focused on the beams above him, not bothering to try to look past them to the high metal ceiling. It was not that bright in the room, so it had been an oversensitivity to light. Brilliant. He licked his lips and was suddenly aware that he was parched. His mouth was uncomfortably dry and his throat hurt. To review his symptoms: pounding head, oversensitivity to light, dry mouth, thirst (possibly dehydration), and limbs that felt weighted down.

                Sherlock tried to bring his hand up to his head but it wouldn’t move. Oh. The heavy limbs might not be a symptom at all, but a result of being restrained. Interesting. He licked his lips again and was almost willing to beg for water.

                “Oh, you’re awake! Lovely! I’ve been waiting on you, Sherlock.” She said brightly. The table he was restrained to moved so that he was in the upright position. The motion made him feel ill. Before he could assimilate properly there was a straw shoved in Sherlock’s mouth. Reflexively he drank to satisfy his thirst. She kept taking the straw away from him and muttering things about going slowly and not making himself sick. As though he cared about stupid things like that.

                Finally, his thirst sated, he turned his head away and closed his eyes. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him, making it difficult to think or keep his eyes open. Succumbing to that would do absolutely nothing though. Besides he hadn’t discovered if John had been taken too. So he turned his head back and met her eyes and said, “Hello.”

                Janine grinned, “Hello Sherl. Are you surprised?”  
 

               “Well… not twins then?”

                “Not exactly.”

                “What…” he paused, gathering his thoughts in an infuriatingly slow manner, “does that mean?”

                Janine shook her head and chided, “Now, now. A girl’s gotta have some secrets.” She smoothed back the curls hanging over his forehead. “How are you feeling, love?”

                “A bit like I’ve been drugged.”

                Janine looked sympathetic and nodded, “I know. Jimmy was always so dramatic. If it had been left up to me then I would have just killed you.” She rolled her eyes and sighed, “Jimmy wanted to do it in an interesting way though. He thought you were a good match for his brilliance. I have to admit that he wasn’t exactly wrong.” She shrugged unconcerned. Then she leaned in and said, conspiratorially, “I didn’t care how you died just so long as you stopped getting in our way. So Jimmy contacted that stupid cabbie and made a deal with him so that you would die.” Janine leaned back, raised her brows, and grinned, “Except then John Watson shot the cabbie. Jimmy was over the moon and he begged to be able to play with you. How could I refuse when he was so happy?”

                Sherlock decided that he hated Janine. It was a stupid time to make that decision since he had known – or at least suspected – she was involved since he found out Mary loved her. For some reason having her stand in front of him and explain things so casually made him hate her. This situation was many things but it was not casual. He hadn’t nearly died multiple times for casual, John hadn’t nearly died multiple times for casual, Sherlock hadn’t jumped off a roof for casual, and he hadn’t given up two years of his life and John Watson for casual.

                He wanted to keep her talking though, which if she was anything like her brother wouldn’t be hard. The Moriarty’s seemed to have an affinity for rambling. There was always the possibility that Mycroft would locate them and Sherlock's plan wouldn't have to be enacted. Sherlock winced as a sharp pain shot through his head and wished he were faking. He cleared his throat and said, “I didn’t interest you?”

                “You are gorgeous, Sherl and there are so many things I would’ve loved to have done with you. Playing ‘who is cleverer’ was never one of them.” Janine hopped on top of the table directly across from him and shrugged, “I’m clever but I was never as brilliant as Jimmy. I was just ruthless and driven.”

                “So why did you bring me here?”

                Janine leaned forward, manic gleam in her eyes, and said, “Do you remember what Jimmy wanted? To burn the heart out of you?”

                Sherlock’s fists clenched and his pulse spiked as he remembered that he still wasn’t sure where John was. He had assumed that she had left him alone because Sherlock was her target. Now he wondered if Janine had taken John somewhere else. Coolly he asked, “Are you going to do it instead?”

                “I did promise Jimmy that if anything happened to him then I would play with you a little bit before I killed you.” She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes as she studied him. “Does it bother you? To know you let me into so many intimate areas of your life and you couldn’t even deduce what a danger I am? You really are slipping, Sherl.”

                “I didn’t want to play the game anymore.”

                “No. The stakes were a bit too high for you, weren’t they? You should have listened to Mycroft.” She sang the last sentence and Sherlock flinched. Janine’s lips pursed in annoyance but she didn’t say anything. “I didn’t know you weren’t dead at first. I thought I was finally through with you, but then,” she flapped a hand, “all these instances kept popping up. Someone very clever was gunning for me and I knew.” Her lips curled in disgust as something vicious passed over her face. “You were still alive.”

                “Janine, I had no idea you’re distaste for me was so strong. I’m flattered.”

                Alarmingly Janine responded with a giggle. “Haven’t you figured it out yet, Sherl? Don’t you see?!” The equipment on the table rattled from the force of her slamming her hand against it. “You’ve always been there. Picking away at all my plans."

                Sherlock reared back in surprise at the implication of that sentence. “Carl Powers.”

                She nodded, “Yeah. When Jimmy told me about his little bomb plan I made him add Carl Powers. I wanted you to know. You were right back then but nobody listened. If only someone had listened then maybe Carl Powers’ mum could have had peace. Nobody ever listened, did they Sherl?”

                “Why did you kill him?” Sherlock asked, baffled.

                “Let me guess,” she cried, crossing her legs and propping her chin in her hand. “When you found out about Jimmy you thought Carl had teased him. For being small, gay, smart, etcetera. You think he never laughed at me? What difference does it make what he did? He pulled my pigtails, he made fun of my spots, or he said I ran like a girl, the list of possibilities could go on. What matters is that Carl was a bastard so I got rid of him.” She laughed again, “Do you know how much fun it was to watch you lot looking for a boy who could have killed Carl?”

                Unease crawled up Sherlock’s spine at Janine’s mood swings. She was much less stable than he had guessed. ‘Mad’ was obviously a family trait. His voice when he spoke was level though, and for that he was proud of himself, “You must have had a good laugh.”

                “I always laugh.” She insisted emphatically. “Do you know how stupid everyone is? It doesn’t matter what I do, they never think a woman is capable of it. I could have put half the work into my cover story and still been twice as well hidden as Jimmy.” She looked thoughtful, gaze unfocused, as she said, “I always worked hard on my cover story though. I’m a very private person.”

                Sherlock let the silence reign for as long as Janine was willing to have it. Because silence where Janine was doing nothing was even better than when Janine was filling the silence with noise. After a few minutes Janine blinked herself back into the moment and crinkled her nose over having left it. “Jimmy was too much of a showman. He wanted everyone to know who he was and what he did. It took me ages to convince him to keep a lower profile. Do you know how hard that is? Well… no, you wouldn’t. Mycroft would be able to relate.”

                Sherlock didn’t react with amusement to that comment the way Janine had obviously wanted him to. Mycroft was many things, and most of those were not good, but how dare she compare him to herself? Instead he gritted out, “This is all fascinating but what’s the point?”

                “I’m getting to the point. I don’t know why you’re acting so huffy. We have all the time that I choose to take to finish this. No one’s going to find you, honey. They’re all busy chasing white rabbits, oblivious to the fact that reality walked right past them.” Janine chastised him. His nostrils flared, a clear tell that he was irritated, but he couldn’t help it. Janine grinned, “Calm down, I’ll get back to it. I set Mary on John because I originally thought I’d draw you out by injuring or killing him. That plan was shot to hell when she said she wanted more time.” Janine rolled her eyes as though she couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to keep John Watson alive.

                “I worked for Magnussen for a while because I thought he was funny. His blackmail techniques were flawless, don’t get me wrong. But his little speeches about the English were adorable. ‘The English are so weak. So polite.’ As though he were a true barbarian.” She giggled, “Nothing he did was even worthy of blackmail. He’d lick a face, or sway a vote, or do a business deal, or flick a face. I let him discover something on me so he could blackmail me too. He loved blackmailing employees. He was so impressed when he could flick me in the eye. You should have seen the glee on his face. I suppose it never occurred to him that I didn’t flinch because I’m incapable of feeling fear.”

                “I see why you and Mary make such a good couple,” murmured Sherlock. “She can’t feel guilt and you can’t feel fear.”

                Janine gasped, “Oh my god! I would love it if Mary couldn’t feel guilt. Do you know how much more simple this all would have been? Her conscience isn’t very good but it does work. If she didn’t feel guilt then she wouldn’t have had such a problem betraying John or killing you. It’s so inconvenient.” She heaved a put-upon sigh before continuing, “So there was a terrorist plot instead. Mycroft was half a step away from dragging you back anyway. Did you like that? I thought it was very funny that it was Lord Moran behind it. It wasn’t Jimmy clever but I thought it was funny.”

                “Because Moran is fake?”

                “Because Jimmy didn’t have a right-hand man. Jimmy always thought it was pathetic to have pets, until he met you and John. Then he thought it would be so funny.” Janine chuckled, “No one knew about me so why would they think Moran was made up to cover for the real right-hand man.”

                On cue a door behind Sherlock opened and Mary stepped into his line of vision. She smiled at him, a little bit like one might smile at the village idiot. “Hello Sherlock.”

                “You… what about John?” He asked slowly. He wasn’t really shocked or angry to see Mary there with Janine. For a long while now he had expected this or some version of it. It would be better if they thought otherwise though.

                A small amount of satisfaction welled inside of Sherlock as the mention of John’s name made Mary’s smile fade. She glared at him and he glared right back. Janine slouched over Mary so that the other woman was holding up most of her weight. “She falls in love so easily,” complained Janine.

                Mary snorted, “There are some professionals who would argue with you.”

                Despite himself Sherlock asked, genuinely curious, “Were you actually tested for sociopathic tendencies?”

                She nodded, “The military recruiters required a psych eval before they would actually off me the job. I did what I needed to have sociopathic tendencies, because apparently they prefer that over full blown sociopaths.”

                “What are you exactly?”  
  

              Mary shrugged, appearing unconcerned as Janine played with her hair. “Never cared enough to find out.”

                Sherlock was tempted to keep Mary talking about her past but he could see Janine getting bored. Sherlock’s fists clenched at the thought. He had never thought that anyone could make him angrier than when Moriarty had strapped a bomb to John or put snipers on John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. These women though had caused John great emotional distress. Sherlock had trusted them, had ignored signs that he shouldn’t trust them, and they had betrayed him.

                “This is all so interesting,” he drawled, “but what is the point?”

                “Well I wanted to give everyone enough time to panic over how long you’ve been gone. Maybe I’ll show you the video of John panicking when he realises you’re gone.” Janine looked thoughtfully at her mobile before she shrugged and hopped off the table. “We can begin now.”

                “Begin what?” Sherlock demanded sharply. He eyed the equipment on the table warily. It had been a while since he’d last been tortured but he knew that he could get through it.

                Janine picked up the video camera and enthusiastically said, “Say hello to England, Sherlock Holmes!”

 

~~~

 

                “How the buggering hell can you not find him?! You know everything! You are the British Government and you control the city! How can you not find your own damn brother?!” John shouted.

                Mycroft didn’t bother to look up from his computer screen as he said, “I am looking for him. Sherlock does know how to disappear when he doesn’t want me to find him.”

                “Oh is that what this is? Moriarty is back from the dead but Sherlock’s decided he’s just going to pop off for a bit? Take a little holiday?” John asked with false cheer. Then he slammed his fist on Mycroft’s desk and yelled, “Find the bloody, deranged man now!”

                “I am trying!” Mycroft shouted back. He was fraying along the edges and John could see it. It was obvious that he was coming apart and that left John feeling scared, and anxious, and paranoid. “If you would stop yelling at me and behave like a civilized person”-

                “I swear to god Mycroft,” John growled, “if this is another one of your stupid plans I’ll kill you.”

                “No. After what happened last time I swore I’d never help him vanish without saying good-bye to you first.”

                John reared back at the confession then gaped. It hadn’t occurred to him to consider what Mycroft had thought of John during Sherlock’s absence. Actually, he was shocked to find out that Mycroft had thought of him at all. “I…” Mycroft shot him an annoyed look when John couldn’t think of how to end that sentence. “Just… please find him.”

                Mycroft’s mouth tightened but before he could respond Anthea entered the room. She wasn’t the least bit fazed by everyone’s attention zeroing in on her. In fact she ignored everyone in favor of grabbing a remote that lifted a panel and revealed a television. Mycroft glared at her but she said, “You need to see this, sir.”

                On screen was Sherlock, shirtless and strapped to a table and looking, frankly, terrible. His gaze was slightly unfocused and his hair was matted to his head, but he looked defiant and annoyed. John stared, took in every inch he could, and catalogued everything he could about him. It didn’t matter to him how the others were reacting to this. All that mattered was that he finally had visual on Sherlock again.

                Blandly Sherlock said, “You do realise this set-up will reveal your cover, don’t you?”

                The camera shook while it was placed on a tripod and someone laughed. Then Janine – _fucking Janine_ – entered the frame and ruffled Sherlock’s curls. John’s hand curled into a fist unconsciously. Janine beamed at Sherlock as though he were a very stupid, but fond, pet. “Mycroft didn’t even know I existed. He spent all that time chasing Jimmy and he never knew about me. Do you think that was an accident? Do you honestly believe that he could find me?”

                “Well, you have shown your hand.”

                “No, I haven’t. But you’ve shown yours.” John flinched as she sang the sentence. Bloody singing villains.

                Irene’s chair nearly tipped over from the force of her standing up. She didn’t look at anyone or saying anything as she left the room. John hated her a little bit for leaving. Sherlock needed help and she was just going to abandon him? John turned to Mycroft to say something, only to realise that Mycroft was watching Irene leave with a suspiciously blank expression. The door closed behind Irene and Mycroft abruptly demanded, “What channel is this on?”

                “All of them, sir.” Anthea answered tightly. “Every television in England is airing this. Our media has been hacked. Again.”

                “Trace it.”

                “We are trying to, sir.”

                “Analyze it then! Run every test or experiment or analysis that you can think of until you find my brother! Do you understand?”

                “Yes, sir.” Anthea said without emotion.

                On screen Sherlock flexed his right hand and asked, “Forgive me for being slow, I was drugged and kidnapped earlier, but how does filming me hurt anyone in my life?”

                Janine shrugged, “I imagine they’re all worried. I was hoping that I might have caused Mummy or Daddy to suffer a literal heart attack or stroke because of the stress of seeing you thusly. What do you think?”

                “I think,” Sherlock said solemnly, harshly, “that you severely underestimate my parents.”

                Janine didn’t look concerned about that. Rather than focus on Sherlock’s parents she said, “Jimmy wanted to burn the heart out of you. Do you know what his big mistake with you was?”

                Sherlock sighed and dully asked, “Assuming I had a heart?”

                Mycroft whispered “He has a plan.” John wasn’t sure if he was even aware he’d spoken.

                “How can you tell?”

                “Body language, vocal inflection, and Sherlock might miss some things but never this. He has a plan.”

                Janine tsked at Sherlock, shaking her head sadly. “I was at the wedding, Sherlock. I know that’s not true.” Sherlock’s flinch unknowingly mirrored the one John gave. Janine smiled, “Jimmy’s mistake was underestimating how many people would be willing to help you. Mycroft and Mousy Molly? So I’m not going to threaten a few people and force you to kill yourself. I’m going to torture you and force everyone to watch. Then I’m going to kill you.”

                Sherlock glared at her and said tightly, “You miscalculated again. If you’re torturing me then how will that hurt anyone else?”

                Janine smiled, picked up a wood burning tool, and handed it to Mary. John shook his head, feeling desperation clawing at his chest as he helplessly watched what they were about to do to Sherlock. Mary angled herself in front of Sherlock and brought the tool up to his chest. “Just think how you’d feel if it was John,” she pressed the tool against him, dragging it, “being tortured.”

                Sherlock arched off the table and let out a loud groan. By the time she finished Sherlock had a ‘J’ burned onto his chest. “We’re going to play a game, Sherl." Janine said as she admired Mary's work. "I think the torture should be enough but I did promise Jimmy. It’s not as good as your games with Jimmy, but I'm not as brilliant. You'll like it though.” Janine tilted her head as she studied the burn mark. “It’s good I think.”

                Sherlock huffed, “You think… you think that you’ll be able to keep John after all this?” Mary scowled at him but Janine laughed. Sherlock ignored Janine’s reaction in favor of Mary. “Is that it? John gets to live but only without you? How romantic.”

                “That’s it!” Janine cried gleefully. “Mary should be dead right now because she disobeyed. I wanted her to torment you with John Watson but she did not have permission to kill you. If you were dead then how was I going to keep my promise to Jimmy? Have you figured out what the plan was? No! I want to tell you! The plan: I would tell you Magnussen was going to be out when he really wouldn’t be. You would come and do whatever it was you were going to do to use me to get in. Then I would knock out the guard, because he wouldn’t see that coming. Mary would enter, knock me out, and go kill Magnussen. You would enter, John, being the good little doctor he is, would attend to me, and you would find Magnussen. I would wake up to find you two and a dead body. Thoughts would ensue.”

                John gritted his teeth at Janine’s flippant tone. Sherlock scoffed, “I never would have been convicted.”

                “No. Mycroft would have saved you, ever the loyal brother. But it would have tarnished you. Your world would have started to fall apart. – It would have been so much fun to watch.” Janine paused, lost in thought for a few minutes, then she smiled and shrugged. “I had a plan for you. After Mary ruined it I had to recalibrate but I think this one is still good.” Sherlock sneered at her and Janine cried excitedly, “Enough of this! Time for the rules to the game!”

                “Why did you want to kill Magnussen if he was so interesting and funny?” Sherlock demanded.

                “Sherlock.”

                “He knew your identity?” Sherlock pressed. “Pretty sure everyone knows now.”

                Janine snorted, “Identity? He found out Janine was an alias. They were all aliases. Jim, Janine, Mary, Richard, and on the list goes.” She frowned, “But he did know I was one half of Moriarty. So I decided to kill him for it. Mycroft wanted the information and I don’t like Mycroft. He’s nosey. Besides killing Magnussen was just as good a way to ruin you as anything.”

                John turned to Mycroft and demanded, "Did you know about her?"

                Mycroft scowled, "No. I told Sherlock to stay away from Magnussen. I needed to find out what he knew. I didn't realise that Magnussen's information was this important."

                Janine clapped her hands and insisted, “Now the game! I’m going to ask you a question. Answer honestly and nothing will happen but if you lie or refuse to answer Mary will give you a scar.”

                “I refuse to play.”

                Janine grinned, “I’ll change your mind.”

                John’s mobile phone rang, abnormally loudly in the quiet room, and he answered it without looking. Part of him hoped it was someone connected to Janine, calling him to get to Sherlock. It was Mrs. Hudson. She sobbed, “John! Oh, John. Did you see? Sh-Sherlock!”

                “I know, Mrs. Hudson. I’m watching right now. Calm down Take a deep breath now. That’s it, nice and slow. No, I can’t come there. I have to stay here and help out-”

                “I’ll go.” Molly offered. “She needs someone with her now.”

                John hesitated because as much as he agreed he still felt wrong about letting Molly go off alone. After all last time Moriarty had targeted people Sherlock cared about and now everyone knew that Molly was included. Lestrade put his hand on the small of her back and said, “I’ll go with her.” Molly looked doubtful about the necessity of him but didn’t argue. So John told Mrs. Hudson they were on their way and hung up.

                On screen Janine said, “Are you ready to play, Sherl? Here’s the first question: why did you get involved with Carl Powers?” Sherlock stared at her, his mouth set mulishly, and refused to answer. Janine sighed, “Mary.” Sherlock groaned as a line was burned onto his left forearm. “Answer me.”

                “Why should I?” He bit out.

                “Just imagine how sad Mycroft will be when he sees his name burned onto your corpse.” Janine said silkily.

                John glanced at Mycroft, who had gone pale, but didn’t say anything. Sherlock shifted against his restraints and said, “I wanted to prove I was right.”

                Mary burned another line onto the ‘M’. Janine chastised him, “The truth this time.” Sherlock mumbled something that sounded like ‘that was the truth’ and Mary added another line. “This will be very boring if we can’t even get through the first question. You have so many people’s names to get burned onto you before I kill you too. Mycroft, John, Lestrade, Molly, and the list goes on. Imagine the guilt when they see your body and know that their name caused you pain. Answer the question.”

                Sherlock was looking down at his arm as best he could. Softly he confessed, “I just wanted to help.”

                “Go on.”

                “Mrs. Powers was on telly, crying about him. She wanted to know why this had happened.” Sherlock lifted his head to make eye contact with Janine and said, “I just wanted to answer her question.”

                “But they ignored you, didn’t they?” Janine said sympathetically. “I killed Carl and those bastards wouldn’t listen to your evidence. What did Mycroft say?”

                John was startled by the genuine concern that flickered across Sherlock’s face. A quick look at Mycroft confirmed he looked uncomfortable and regretful. Sherlock said, “He was just a child”-

                Mary cut his words off by finishing the ‘M’ on his arm. “Damn it.” Mycroft muttered. “Just answer the question.”

                Janine didn’t look much moved by Sherlock’s suffering. Blandly she said, “Answer the question.” Sherlock shook his head and Mary burned another line onto his arm. Presumably the beginnings of the ‘y’. Sherlock’s reactions seemed to be getting more contained. John could almost see him tunneling his brainpower into controlling the pain. “Sher-lock. Answer the question. Mycroft is going to be so sad if you let Mary burn his whole name onto you.” She gasped and demanded gleefully, “Do you think he’ll cry? That would be spectacular. Mycroft Holmes brought to tears by his baby brother.”

                Janine hopped off the table and approached Sherlock. John’s hand clenched into a fist as Janine gently ran her fingers over the burns. She looked seduced by the burn marks on his body. Her back was to the camera but John could picture her looking up at Sherlock through her lashes as she said quietly, “What did Mycroft say to you?”

                Sherlock closed his eyes and finally said, “All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage. He was a child though. He didn’t realise- Ah!”

                “Don’t speak out of turn.” Janine chided.

                Several people burst into Mycroft’s office, all of them talking. John couldn't make sense of what they were saying, although he wasn't trying very hard, but Mycroft seemed to think it was worthy of his attention. Mycroft shepherded them out the door, promising to let John know if they found out anything. John felt a bit like he should be more actively looking for Sherlock, but he knew he was no match for any Moriarty. Mycroft would find Sherlock and then John would be needed. So he nodded, unable to take his eyes off of Sherlock. Watching Sherlock get tortured was doing exactly what Janine wanted to happen. But he couldn’t look away because he wasn’t there. John wasn’t there to protect Sherlock or have his back or even to just be support. Sherlock was completely alone and the wrongness of that kicked John in the gut.

                “Poor little Sherlock,” mocked Janine. “Desperately trying to help Carl Powers only to have older brother Mycroft tell you to piss off.” Sherlock glared furiously at her but managed to keep his mouth shut. Janine giggled and went back to sit on the table. “Where were Mummy and Daddy when Mycroft was giving you this life lesson? What did they think of your obsession with a murdered boy?”

                “What does it matter?!” Sherlock burst out. “Nothing was their fault! Mycroft, my parents it wasn’t their fault! Just like your psychotic game isn’t their fault!”

                Mary burned the ‘C’ onto Sherlock’s arm in one swift movement. He huffed out a strained breath and his neck arched, turning his head. “Don’t speak out of turn.” Mary reminded him. She looked at Sherlock’s arm and said, “He hates that name. Myc.”

                “Not as much as he hates you.” Sherlock sneered.

                Mary grinned, “I actually like you and I’m searing people’s names into your skin. Do you think that I care whether Mycroft hates me or not?”

                “You should. Because no matter what you do to me he’s going to destroy you.”

                “Are you really that naïve?” Janine asked in delight. “Mycroft is blinded by his own cleverness. Nothing will happen that I don’t want.” Mary nodded her agreement. “Now answer my question, Sherl. England wants to know.”

                Before Sherlock could respond the door behind him opened. Janine glared furiously and Mary looked surprised. Janine snapped, “You’re early.”

                “I know,” Irene cooed. John picked up a paperweight on Mycroft’s desk and threw it against the wall. Bloody Irene Adler! Sherlock closed his eyes momentarily at her voice. “I brought you a gift though.”

                “Sherlock?”

                “Oh my god.” John whispered, feeling sick to his stomach at the sight of Molly walking into the room. She looked frightened as she glanced uneasily at Janine and Mary.

                “Molly?” The emotion in Sherlock’s voice twisted John’s stomach.

                Irene arched a brow at Sherlock, ignoring the way Janine and Mary were eyeing Molly. John hated the self-satisfied grin Irene was wearing. He always hated that stupid smirk. Sherlock just looked tired as he gazed at her. His attention was obviously more focused on trying to get Molly in his line of vision. Flatly he said, “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you. After all you only seem to know how to betray someone.”

                “Oh don’t be like that. You know you can’t resist me.” She ran a finger gently down his cheek but he jerked away.

                Molly stepped forward hesitantly. Then she finally saw the burn marks on Sherlock's body and gasped, “Sherlock!” She rushed forward, clearly intent on providing medical attention.

                Mary swung the wood burning tool around and nearly burned Molly’s face. She glared menacingly and murmured, “I wouldn’t.”

                Molly glanced uncertainly at Sherlock but kept still. Janine jumped off the table, grabbed Mary’s arm, and shoved her aside. “Why did you bring her here?” Janine screamed. John supposed that was the family resemblance peeping out.

                Irene turned to Janine and shrugged, “The sweet, little tart thought she could follow me. She was extremely obvious so I thought I would bring her here for a bit of fun.”

                Mary glanced at Irene then Sherlock, clearly suspicious. Her mouth tightened and John wondered what she was seeing or thinking that made her look like that. Mary moved to take Molly somewhere but Janine stopped them. “Molly, love, you can settle an argument. Put her there.” Janine said sweetly. Mary hesitated before she tied Molly to a chair.

                After Molly was settled Janine said, “We were dealing in the hypothetical but now we can deal in realities. As a scientist I’m sure that Sherl will appreciate this.” Sherlock’s jaw twitched but he didn’t react otherwise. Janine grinned at him before she asked Molly, “Would you rather see Mary burn your name onto Sherlock,” she gestured to the wood burning tool, “or have him answer a question that could be emotionally disturbing for people in his life?”

                “Answer the question.” Molly answered promptly.

                John closed his eyes because he knew what was going to follow. Janine turned to him with a bright smile. “Sherlock why did you decide to speak to Mousey Molly?”

                It was obvious that Molly tried to hide her flinch at the name, but she didn’t quite manage. It was equally obvious that Sherlock didn’t want to answer but Molly cried out when Mary burned a line onto Sherlock’s right forearm. The beginning of Molly’s name because Sherlock was refusing to answer. John assumed it was because of Molly’s cry of distress that Sherlock answered so quickly. He groaned and said, “Because I spent time at St. Bart’s. She worked there and had low self-esteem. I knew that she would be easy to manipulate and take advantage of if I got her to like me and think she had a chance with me romantically.”

                “Did she?”

                “No.” He said it apologetically but Molly didn’t look surprised.

                “Sherlock,” Janine tsked. “Expound on that.”

                “I like men.”

                Molly screamed when the tool made contact with Sherlock’s skin. John didn’t blame her because he felt a little like screaming too. The ‘J’ on Sherlock’s chest was looking worse and worse. “Should she do another?” Janine asked. Molly was sobbing but Sherlock still refused to answer, so another line was burned onto him. Molly begged Sherlock through her tears to just say it.

                So he did. “I found her girlish, naïve, and unmemorable. I barely respected her professionally, so how could I have wanted anything else with her?” Sherlock said it rapid-fire. John had a feeling that Sherlock had some vague idea it would hurt less. Janine made a pleased sound while Molly cried.  Sherlock looked concerned for her – he had burn marks on his body and _he was concerned for Molly_ – and said, “That’s not true now though. She’s stronger than I expected. There’s more to her”-

                Mary made another line on his right arm, completing the 'M', then everything happened at once. Molly made a move to get to Sherlock and Janine pulled a knife on her. Then a shot was fired, two shots, and Janine crumpled to the ground. Mary dropped the wood burning tool to draw her gun and aim it at Molly. Before Molly could react to a the gun pointed at her, Irene hit Mary on the head with a pipe she had picked up, hard enough to knock Mary out. Sherlock shouted not to hurt Mary then the camera got knocked over and the video connection was lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually loved Janine. I didn't like her in a romantic relationship with Sherlock, but I thought she was funny and I liked her. I didn't expect to make a connection between her and Moriarty. But I was reading something on Tumblr (that wasn't even about Janine) and somehow that made me realize what I was going to do with this story. 
> 
> So this happened and I feel a little bad for making her a villain but... what's done is done, I guess. Sorry.


	4. Part Four

                The thing about finding someone in London is, it’s much easier to do when one receives a text with the location of the one you’re looking for. Mycroft and John were baffled how Greg could know where Sherlock and everyone were but grateful for the information. The entire trip to hospital was tense and silent because Greg wasn’t responding to inquiries into anyone’s health. Mycroft was hoping that Irene Adler would be at hospital even though Greg hadn’t mentioned her. There were several things he wanted to discuss with her.

                It was all rather convenient that Irene, Greg, and Sally Donovan were in a waiting room arguing, loudly, with each other. Before Mycroft could employ his usual tactics to silence a room there was an annoying shriek of a whistle. The person next to Mycroft had clearly been replaced by Captain John Watson and Mycroft was content to let him take lead. For now. John glared at the three, all with varying degrees of guilt written all over every aspect of their being.

                Firmly John asked, “What the hell happened?” In an act of true stupidity all three began speaking at once. At least this time Mycroft was able to cover his ears before Captain Watson released his whistle. “I will call on one of you to answer that question and no one will interrupt the other. You will all get your turn.” He pointed at Irene and bit out, “You. I recommend explaining why I shouldn’t let Mycroft drag you off to prison very quickly.”

                “I was on Sherlock’s side.” Irene insisted. Mycroft snorted before he could control the reaction. Irene glared and said, “I was. This was all his stupid plan to draw out Moriarty and save John Watson. Aren’t they all about that?” Mycroft wondered, with an odd sort of passivity, if Irene realised the thin ice she was on. “Mary had explained things to Sherlock but some of it wasn’t true. The only thing he really seemed to believe was that she worked for Moriarty and loved John. Of course Sherlock would believe she loved John. He finds it inconceivable that anyone could not love John.”

                “I would,” interrupted Mycroft, “stick with facts, Ms. Adler.”

                Irene glanced at John, looking irate, and frowned. Her mouth tightened and her eyes narrowed, and for a moment Mycroft worried she was going to be completely inappropriate and lecture John. Instead she said, “I was supposed to contact Moriarty and offer my assistance. I had worked with Moriarty before and I’m not exactly known for having strong loyalties, so Sherlock thought Moriarty would use me.”

                “It didn’t occur to you to contact John or myself?” Mycroft demanded, ignoring the glare he received from John. Sherlock’s plan – and that term was being used loosely – was clear to Mycroft now and he was not please Irene had agreed to it.

                “Of course it did. However I knew if I did that then Sherlock would just come up with another plan and leave me out of it. I decided that I liked the idea of being involved and able to watch him too much to risk it. Besides I didn’t actually think that he’d be able to trick you, not when he was so obviously losing control. You didn’t see anything though! You even let Mary help us plan for Magnussen.”

                “Irene!” John barked. She paused to look at him with large, innocent eyes – a knee-jerk reaction, Mycroft knew. “Are you finished explaining your involvement?”

                Irene hesitated, clearly wanting that to be the end of what she had to say, before she sighed, “Sherlock and Moriarty wanted me to distract Mycroft so his focus would be off. So the night before Sherlock was set to leave I went to visit him.” Mycroft had already deduced that so it was easy enough to keep his face blank. Irene refused to look at him and refused to break eye contact with John. “I don’t know why Janine and Mary wanted me to be there when Sherlock was… when they had Sherlock. All I know is they asked me to show up at a certain time.

                “Molly and Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum were supposed to follow me. Then I would catch Molly, grandly, as a distraction for Moriarty’s men who would most likely be following me. Sherlock said that they’d be so distracted by catching one they wouldn’t think to notice the other two. He ended up being correct, despite my doubts. I don’t know why I was giving Molly over or what I was supposed to do once I arrived. That was the extent of my knowledge of the plan. The only other thing Sherlock told me was not to hurt Mary.”

                Greg snorted, “Didn’t quite manage that.”

                “Did you want her to kill Molly?”

                “You’re finished talking.” John snapped. Then he pointed at Greg and said, “You.”

                Greg cleared his throat before he explained, “Molly and me went to see Sherlock when he was in custody. He gave us a letter to give Ms. Hudson, except the letter was in some code that he had taught Ms. Hudson years ago. Because coded letters are the type of insane thing Sherlock does. The letter wasn’ ended up being addressed to Sally. Anyway, we were supposed to follow Irene and use Molly getting caught as a distraction. I thought it sounded too dangerous but Molly agreed. Sally and I were supposed to get set-up as snipers”-

                “He picked _you_ to be his snipers?” John demanded incredulously.

                Greg and Sally glared at him furiously. Sally bit out, “You’re not the only one who’s been trained to shoot a gun. Or act as a sniper.”

                John gave them what Mycroft could only describe as A Look. Greg ignored John and continued, “We weren’t supposed to hurt Mary but when Sherlock gave the signal I was supposed to take out Janine.” He glared at Sally and said, “But that didn’t go as planned.”

                “Sherlock was being _tortured_ and Molly was nearly killed. I wasn’t going to sit around and wait on his sodding signal all day.”

                “Why did you wait at all? The second Mary touched Sherlock you should have shot Janine. You shouldn’t have waited for a signal from Sherlock.” John shouted.

                “It’s Sherlock.” Greg argued. “There is always a reason for everything that Sherlock does. I was trusting that the bastard had a plan!”

                John flapped a hand to silence Greg and turned to Sally. “You.”  
                “Me? There’s not much more to tell. Sherlock sent me a letter asking me to act as back-up for Greg. – He promised that his brother would take care of any repercussions.”

                “I shall,” Mycroft interrupted, “there’s no need to worry about that.”

                Sally hesitated before she nodded. John was still glaring at her so she shrugged, “I don’t know why Sherlock chose me. He and I have never been friends. His letter just said that I was too moral and dedicated to justice to betray him. I thought he was laying it on a bit thick, but I wasn’t just going to stand by while Moriarty wreaked havoc on London. Again. So I helped.”

                John scrubbed his hands over his face, then summed everything up quite eloquently when he said, “Idiot.” No one disagreed although they did watch him warily. Finally he let his hands drop and asked, “Where’s Molly?”

                “Her chair fell over during the chaos and she hit her head. She’s getting stitches now.” Greg said, worry clouding his eyes once more.

                John nodded, looking concerned, then started to leave. So Mycroft asked, “Who took care of the guards?”

                “Guards?” John asked blankly, pausing. He completely missed the look of discomfort shared by the other three.

                “You don’t honestly believe that Janine and Mary would leave themselves unguarded, do you? Especially when they were expecting a visit from Irene. A woman they did not trust.”

                “We don’t know who did that.” Irene admitted. “We just… saw the evidence.”

                “I see. Well, what an elaborate plan my brother crafted. Although to what purpose I couldn’t say.” Mycroft glanced to his side only to find that John Watson had disappeared. Likely in search of a consulting detective and news of the baby.

                Sally regarded him suspiciously as she asked, “Are you really going to take care of everything for me?”

                Mycroft looked his blandest, because he was half a step away from having an entirely inappropriately emotional response to… everything. “Of course. Sherlock used you in one of his plans which makes you one of his people now.” Sally spluttered and Mycroft ignored her. “Ms. Adler. I wouldn’t leave if I were you. I would like a word.”

                Irene glared from her position by the waiting room door. Greg glanced between the two before he slowly asked, “Do I have to stay? Because I was kind of hoping to check on Molly.”

                “You and Sargent Donovan may leave,” answered Mycroft, without looking away from Irene. “Thank you both for your assistance.”

 

~~~

 

                Janine was dead. This news surprised and disappointed exactly no one. Mary’s injury was more severe than originally thought so the doctors had performed an emergency caesarian section. It should have been a bit concerning that, when asked if it came to choosing between saving Mary or the baby, John unhesitantly chose the baby. John hadn’t been concerned by the ease of that decision because he had just watched Mary torture Sherlock. For a moment he thought that the doctors might be upset but they weren’t. Then he remembered everyone in England would have seen it too. After the caesarian section, emergency surgery had to be performed on both Mary and the baby due to complications.

                Meanwhile Sherlock had been unconscious the entire time. His wounds had been tended to and John had been a little relieved when they’d been covered. There might be a day when John would look at the letters on Sherlock’s skin and not flinch, but for now it still hurt. Mercifully the nurses had bathed him so that Sherlock was no longer a filthy, greasy mess. He was just pale and his features were sharper than normal. Even as John wished Sherlock would wake up it was good for him to be sleeping. Sherlock always needed more sleep, but he needed it especially right now.

                There was also a part of John that couldn’t help but be furious with Sherlock. It was actually an extremely large part of John that was furious. Because Sherlock had left him out of another plan and this plan had been so _stupid_. There were so many problems with it that John didn’t know where to begin. If ordinary John saw all of these problems, he thought, how many other problems had Sherlock seen? Yet Sherlock had still done it anyway. He had to have known that Mary and Janine were going to do something to him and he let it happen. It was going to be extremely difficult not to yell at Sherlock when he finally woke up.

                Molly and Greg had stopped by after the doctors released Molly. Seeing the stitches on Molly’s head had only made John’s ire flare because people had been hurt. Molly cried a bit and got frustrated with herself for crying but didn’t seem able to stop. John hugged her and that made her cry harder and John realised that Molly was coming out of shock. Between John’s doctor-instincts and Greg’s Molly-instincts they got her calmed down. She had been mortified but Mrs. Hudson – and John had no idea when she’d shown up – had made her feel better with some story that didn’t seem to have a real point.

                It had been nice to have company for a while but John had been glad when they left. No one had suggested that John go with them. Sherlock was at hospital and the baby and Mary were still in surgery. So John sat at Sherlock’s bedside, staring at Sherlock’s face, listening to the heart monitor, and gripping his hand. Ordinarily John would be too nervous about… everything to hold Sherlock’s hand. What would people say, how would Sherlock react, what did it mean about their relationship, etc. Now he didn’t care. He loved this idiot and he was damn well going to hold the idiot’s hand.

                Mycroft entered the room, and John knew it was Mycroft without looking or hearing noise because Mycroft always changed the feel of a room. It was a neat and unsettling trick. For a while neither said anything. Eventually John’s gaze flickered to the window so he could see Mycroft’s reflection. The other man was staring at Sherlock with such heavy emotion that John had to look away.

                Finally Mycroft cleared his throat and said quietly, “I am very sorry John, but Mary died.” John wondered if Mycroft had ever delivered news of a death before. He was shite at it. If John had cared about Mary at all anymore he would have been furious over Mycroft’s blunt delivery. “Her head trauma was too severe, particularly when mixed with the trauma of a difficult labor.”

                The way Mycroft said that it was as though the words were supposed to mean something. The Mary that John had married and loved had never really existed, he had mourned her months ago. This Mary was just one of Moriarty’s henchmen who had hurt Sherlock. John felt no need to mourn this Mary’s death. That was probably taking compartmentalizing too far but John would worry about that later. Instead he asked, “How’s the baby?”

                The silence that followed was rather eloquent. But then most things the Holmes brothers did was eloquent. This time Mycroft spoke with more care and less rehearsed precision. “A DNA test was performed. I thought it was pertinent given the lies Mary had told. I am very sorry to inform you that you are not the father of the baby.”

                Meaning he had no paternal rights to the baby. Meaning he legally couldn’t know anything about the baby. Meaning he shouldn’t care how the baby was doing. “How’s the baby?”

                Mycroft heaved a put-upon sigh but it wasn’t a surprised sigh. “I am told that the baby is still in critical condition. However the doctors seem optimistic about her recovery. Her father is”-

                “David.” John interrupted. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the surprise flicker across Mycroft’s face. “I’m not a complete idiot you know. We have enough basic features in common that his baby could pass for mine. I just don’t know why Mary bothered to bring a baby into this mess.”

                “You are unfailingly loyal, John. She knew that where your loyalty towards her ended, your loyalty for your baby would hold strong. I imagine she also thought that Janine would be more lenient if Mary was pregnant.” Mycroft said, although he didn’t think John cared very much. Then he offered, “David has been contacted and says he’s willing to let you see the baby.”

                John huffed a sort of laugh and nodded. “Thanks.” They stayed in silence together for a few minutes, watching Sherlock’s stillness. Then John said, “It’s for the best really. Can you imagine my life with a baby?”

                “John”-

                “Please don’t try to comfort me, Mycroft.” John said sharply. “If you try that then I might actually start crying and then what would you do? You’d have to kill me. And if you killed me then Sherlock would probably kill you. So don’t comfort me. Just… in general, don’t.”

                Mycroft kept his peace and for that John was extremely grateful. John sat there furious with Sherlock for his stupidity. Furious with himself for not seeing through Mary. Furious with Mycroft for not doing whatever it was that Mycroft did that should have enabled him to know about Mary. Furious in general. Finally he murmured, “It’s better that I don’t have a baby.”

                “Oh I don’t know,” Irene said smoothly, “I think you and Sherlock would make adorable parents.”

                John turned around so he could give her a proper glare. “You are very brave to come here.”

                Irene glanced at Mycroft, as though to confirm that John was addressing herself. “I was just following Sherlock’s plan. What did you want me to do? Let him do something stupid by himself.”

                John’s mouth tightened as he continued to glare at her. Mycroft rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything. Then John blinked and frowned at the pair standing in the doorway. Sharply he demanded, “What is going on between the two of you?”

                Irene looked amused by the question but Mycroft merely said, “We’ll leave you alone with Sherlock now. Good-night, Dr. Watson.”

                They left and John sat there for a moment before turning back to Sherlock. He probably didn’t want to know what was going on. Besides he had other things to worry about at the moment.

 

~~~

 

                One moment John was sitting by Sherlock’s bed watching him sleep and the next John started awake to find Sherlock blinking at the ceiling. Based on the amount of sunlight coming into the room John decided he had fallen asleep. Not a particularly good characteristic in a guard. Slowly Sherlock’s eyes moved to John, looking blank and unfocused. John’s stomach twisted at the idea that Sherlock didn’t remember him, even for that brief second.

                Sherlock blinked again, slower, then the light came back into his eyes. He jerked up and demanded, “John, how are Mary and the baby? What happened? Where’s Molly and Irene? I don’t understand.”

                John gently pressed Sherlock back onto the bed and said, “Molly and Irene are fine. Molly hit her head but she’s completely fine. Greg’s looking after her. The baby is still touch-and-go but the doctors are optimistic.” John hesitated before he continued, “Mary didn’t make it. The trauma was too much for her.”

                Sherlock paled even further, although John hadn’t thought that could be possible, and he screwed his eyes shut. “I’m so sorry.” He said desperately. “I tried to keep her safe enough.”

                “Sherlock.” John snapped. “You keep acting like I loved Mary when I love you. Christ! I told you I loved you and you told me to hold off. And I still love you!”

                “Mary”-

                “Was a liar who shot you and then tortured you.” John finished firmly. “She was in love with Moriarty and I would so much rather her be dead than you.”

                Sherlock looked away as he digested this information and John wanted to scream because how could Sherlock still not get it? Slowly Sherlock asked, “Have you seen the baby?”

                “No. Although David said I could visit though.” Sherlock eyes shot to John and John realised he had yet another reason to be irritated with Sherlock. “You knew,” it was not a question.

                Sherlock obviously considered the pros and cons of responding to that. John continued to glare at him so Sherlock said, “After finding out about Mary’s association with Moriarty it occurred to me that she might use pregnancy to gain leeway with you and Janine.”

                “Yeah, well thanks for the warning.”

                “I wasn’t certain.”

                John leaned back in his seat and nodded, “Yeah, right. No, of course.” Then he gestured with his hand and said, “Go on then. Explain everything to me.”

                Sherlock’s brow furrowed as he studied John carefully. He tilted his head and asked, “Didn’t you talk to Lestrade and Irene and”-

                “Donovan and even Molly a bit. Now I want _you_ to explain it to me.”

                “I don’t really know what I can add to their recounting.”

                “Sherlock,” said John quietly. It was the deadly quiet that Sherlock knew did not bode well for the recipient. “Why don’t you start with why you thought fucking Janine was Moriarty?”

                “Well… she did work for Magnussen and she liked me. That was convenient. Plus if Mary loved her there must have been something interesting about Janine.” Sherlock shrugged, hoping a vague answer would satisfy John. He was unimpressed so Sherlock heaved a sigh, resigned to a slightly fuller explanation. “It became clear to me that there must be… someone still controlling Moriarty’s network. This person had to be clever but not as clever as Moriarty himself. Irene told me that there were rumors swirling. Moran – who had always been rumored to be Moriarty’s favorite, but we had determined he was fictitious – was rumored to be, well, fake. People were saying Moriarty had an identical twin brother. Stupid.

                “The idea of there being someone in control was plausible. When I discovered Mary’s involvement and she bragged about being Moriarty’s favorite I realised her connection. James Moriarty didn’t have a favorite anyone, he used people and Mary had a deeper connection with her Moriarty. That was evidenced by the fact that Moriarty was going to let Mary retire. So the question was: who could be the other Moriarty, one Mary had a deep connection to, and whose favorite Mary could be, but would be considerably less noticeable than James Moriarty? Janine fit everything.”

                “Right. So you thought ‘oh hey Janine’s probably Moriarty. I think I’ll let her kidnap and torture me’?”

                “Not exactly. I knew Janine wasn’t just going to go away. I had to come up with a plan”-

                “Which you didn’t do.”

                Sherlock frowned, “I did. It involved”-

                “Getting tortured. Why didn’t you give the signal? Lestrade and Donovan had been set-up and they were waiting for your signal. So why didn’t you give it?”

                “It was part of the plan”-

                “You didn’t have a bloody plan!” John shouted. He stood up abruptly and began pacing. “That was not a plan. It was stupid and reckless and could have killed so many people. You did not have a plan, but you should have told me about your sodding excuse of a plan! I could have helped!”

                “I was trying to save you.”

                “Oh my god!” John stopped and glared at Sherlock. His hand twitched as he considered throwing something against the wall. “I was the most qualified out of all of your options to help you. That didn’t stop you from going to Lestrade and Donovan and Molly and Irene! I am sick of you making these stupid plans and expecting me to pick up the pieces!” John finished with a frantic wave of his hands and realised he was panting.

                Sherlock looked away, opening and closing his right hand slowly. Seeing Sherlock staring blankly out the window was infuriating, but John was determined to get an answer. Finally Sherlock asked quietly, “Do you know why I saved myself when I jumped?”  
                Of course Sherlock would bring that up while John was furious. He snorted, “Yeah. You’re so sodding clever that you figured out Moriarty was going to kill you and came up with a plan to save yourself.”

                “No. Moriarty told me at the pool he wanted to kill me. That was always obvious. Why did I save myself?”

                “To take down Moriarty’s network.”

                “Mycroft can do that. He’s just lazy.” Sherlock said impatiently. He looked at John momentarily then looked away. Sherlock swallowed visibly and John realised that whatever Sherlock was about to share was going to be much more important than John had been expecting. “Moriarty told me he had a bullet for Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. I would have jumped to save just them.” Sherlock’s eyes met John’s and he said solemnly, “I saved myself for you.” John sucked in a breath as his meaning sunk in and Sherlock shook his head, presumably at John’s immense stupidity.

                “I have never,” he paused and hesitantly licked his lips. “I have never been in love, John. I have no point of reference for you. All I know, all I’ve ever known since we met, is that you’re more important to me than… anything. I didn’t include you in my plans – reckless, dangerous, and inadvisable as they were – because I cannot fathom leaving the world without John Watson.”

                John looked away, his mouth tight, and his brow furrowed as he shook his head. “You’re not – you can’t make romantic speeches while I’m furious at you, Sherlock. It’s not fair.”

                Sherlock grinned, “I’ve been told I’m a manipulative bastard before.”

                John choked on a laugh and said, “And I’ll call you that again.” He leaned over Sherlock and pressed their foreheads together. “Never again,” whispered John.

                “Possibly.”

                “Sherlock…”

                “John, kiss me.”

                And John did. It was brief, and not at all what they had been building up to, but it was enough for now. John pulled back, ignoring Sherlock’s frown, and sat down. He acknowledge to himself that there was still so much they needed to discuss about Janine and Mary but it wouldn’t be done then. Another day and time perhaps. Instead he asked, “So what’s next, genius?”

                “Ah, well I have been meaning to speak to you about that and now is as good a time as any I suppose.”

                John groaned, “You’re bracing me. This can’t be good if you’re bracing me.”

                “Oh for god’s sake, John don’t be so dramatic.” Sherlock scolded. John made an indignant noise but Sherlock ignored him. “I’ve been thinking about this for quite some time now. I don’t… you may not like the idea very much but it’s something I want. I’ve been contemplating an early retirement.”

                “How bad is this thing if you’re trying to distract me with the possibility of retirement?”

                Sherlock scowled and snapped, “It’s not a distraction. I want to retire – or at least semi-retire.”

                John blinked because Sherlock was serious about this. “I always assumed that you’d be 100 and chasing criminals and calling them idiots.”

                “Yes, well…” Sherlock shrugged and smoothed out his blanket, even though it didn’t need it. John was surprised by the obvious nervous gesture. “All of the interesting criminals keep using you and the others to make me do things and it’s no fun anymore.” He cleared his throat and continued, “So I thought I’d go into semi-retirement. I could still take on the interesting private cases. I imagine crime will be abysmally dull in Sussex”-

                “Sussex?”

                “I’ve always wanted to move by the sea, John.”

                “Have you?” John grinned because Sherlock was being a little bit adorable and John needed this in the midst of every other horrible thing that had happened. “Wait. Oh my god you want to buy Janine’s cottage.”

                “Well it will presumably be for sale now.” Sherlock insisted defensively. “Besides she didn’t have a chance to tear down the bee hives yet.”

                “So?”

                “So? Bee hives, John!” Sherlock cried. He sounded very much like John should see why they were important but John only shrugged. “Do you know what I could do with bee hives?”

                “No. Tear them down?”

                “Tear them… I had no idea that you were completely heartless. I’m not going to destroy them! For god’s sake! I want to study and observe them. And do experiments with honey. The possibilities are incredible. Besides I could also assist the Sussex police with their pathetic crimes. You could join a small practice and be bored out of your mind with colds and flus and mysterious back pains that aren’t that mysterious.”

                John smiled despite himself over Sherlock’s enthusiasm. The sheer fact that Sherlock seemed excited about retirement made John realised how long Sherlock had probably been thinking about this. “What about 221b and Mrs. Hudson?”

                “We’d split our time between Sussex and London. We could still assist Lestrade with cases and my website would still be active. It’s just that we’d spend at least half of the year in Sussex.”

                John was glad to see Sherlock so excited about something, even if John thought he was wrong. John had a feeling Sherlock was still worn out from being dead and then from being shot and then from being tortured. Most likely he just needed a holiday. Since it would be awhile before Sherlock could work because of his fresh burns John didn’t see the problem with a holiday in Sussex.

                Sherlock’s face shuttered suddenly and he said, “It was just an idea. Obviously I haven’t come to any final decisions. Lestrade will probably be in here tomorrow asking for my help with one of his dull cases.”

                “Um, no. You are not taking any cases until your doctor – that’s me, by the way – says it’s okay for you to take one. Anyway I was just thinking, Sherlock. That doesn’t mean I hate your idea of Sussex.”

                “I understand that semi-retirement would not be quite as interesting as our life now. You would most likely be bored.”

                “Me?” John cried incredulously. “You’re the one practically dies between cases.”

                “John, a large part of my appeal for you is the danger. The adrenaline rush.”

                John gaped at him and Sherlock frowned thunderously. Slowly John said, “You honestly believe that. Sherlock if that were true then why would I stick with you in between cases?”

                “You didn’t. So I shot the wall, except you left again after confiscating your gun.”

                John jerked forward, seizing Sherlock’s hand, and said earnestly, “Sherlock – no, this is important. Look at me. I love you. End of sentence. It doesn’t go ‘I love you so long as you’re interesting’. It’s just… just plain old I love you. Just sitting next to you while nothing is happening is brilliant because it’s you. I never needed the cases, Sherlock. Those were fun but I didn’t need them. I need you, I want you, I love you, and I’m fairly certain I’ll follow you anywhere including Sussex.”

                “I can’t leave you again, John. And if you leave me I honestly don’t think it would go well for me. So if I try to lead where you don’t want to follow, you have to tell me. Don’t leave.” Sherlock said with such desperation John’s heart stopped for a few beats. As though John would ever think of leaving Sherlock again.

                John sat on the edge of Sherlock’s bed and kissed him again. On his lips, on his cheeks, on his forehead. Until he was leaning over Sherlock and stroking his cheek in the most sodding romantic way he could think of doing. “I would like to see someone try to separate us again.”

                Sherlock grinned then closed his eyes and sighed. It was such a contented sigh, and after everything that had happened recently it made John’s stomach twist in a painfully good way. Then Sherlock murmured, “I don’t want to see it. I’m tired.”

                “That might be the drugs.” John suggested as he moved back into the chair by the bed. He kept ahold of Sherlock’s hand though.

                “True.”

                John hesitated before he said, “You know this isn’t over, right Sherlock? We still have so much we need to talk about with your stupid plan and our relationship.”

                Sherlock nodded and yawned, “Yes.” Then he turned his head to look at the bandages on his arm with heavy eyes. After a minute of tense silence Sherlock said, “Mycroft will probably kidnap me just to ensure the rest of his name is burned there.”

                It wasn’t at all what Sherlock meant. John knew that but he didn’t know what to say to help. He didn’t know what would make Sherlock feel better, or even if anything could make Sherlock feel better. So he said, “He’ll probably let you get away with just a tattoo of the rest.”  
 

               Sherlock barked a laugh and John considered that a victory. Then Sherlock closed his eyes and gripped John’s hand tighter. He slurred out, “Stay.”

                “Always, love.” John murmured, loving the way Sherlock’s mouth tipped up with each endearment.

 

~~~

 

                “Got the post.” John announced as he entered the bedroom.

                Sherlock groaned from his prone position on the bed because John was obsessed with the post. He insisted on getting it every day and often insisted on reading it immediately. Sherlock did not remember John being this obsessed with the post in London. He had a feeling this was Sussex’s influence on John. This new obsession was one of the very few downsides to Sussex.

                John sat on the bed, grinning a bit as Sherlock rolled over and wrapped an arm around his waist. He sorted the mail a bit absent mindedly until he came to a postcard. “We got something from David.” He scanned it before he said, “Emily’s doing well. He’s taking her to see his family and his parents are, apparently, thrilled. His parents live near… well, near-ish Sussex and he’s invited us to visit sometime.”

                “Dull.”

                “You like Emily.”

                “Yes, but I don’t like Emily’s family. Do you see how that works?” Sherlock said firmly. He did not want John getting any ideas about visiting people into his head. It was bad enough he spent so much time on the post. In fact… Sherlock adjusted himself so that he could kiss John’s shoulder.

                “Sherlock.” John said as Sherlock kissed his way to John’s neck. “After I’m finished with the post.”

                Sherlock fell down with a disgusted snort. His seductions had an alarmingly low success rate whenever John was distracted by the post. Another reason not to like this new obsession. “We got a letter from Irene.” John sounded baffled.

                “Dull,” repeated Sherlock.

                John ignored that in favor of opening the letter. “Apparently Mycroft wants you to stop sending him pictures of us. Sherlock!” John twisted so he could glared at Sherlock, “Do you do that?” Sherlock’s response was an elegant shrug. “Berk! Are we at least clothed in these pictures?”

                Sherlock scoffed, “As though I would let Mycroft see anything important of yours.”

                John hesitated, because he wasn’t sure he believed Sherlock, before he turned back around and began reading again. “She’s asking you to send the pictures to her instead. – Then she listed Mycroft’s home address. What on earth is their relationship?”

                “They’re in love.”

                “Are they?”

                “Yes. It’s boring.”

                John’s brow furrowed thoughtfully as he asked, “How does their relationship work? With her being a lesbian dominatrix and him being the British Government?”

                Sherlock smirked and opened one eye as he asked, “Do you honestly want to know?”

                “Ah. No.” John admitted as he discarded the post. He laid next to Sherlock and put his arm around him. “What do you want to do today?”

                “Yell at small children.”

                John laughed, and it was probably a sign of how much time he spent with Sherlock that a sentence like that made him laugh. “What?”

                “I have to start proving to the people around here that there’s something off about me. The fastest way to do that is to randomly yell at small children.”

                “You know that makes no sense right?”

                “I’m not trying to convince you that I’m a sociopath. You already know.”

                “You’re not a sociopath.”

                “Yes I am.”

                “No you’re not.” John insisted firmly. “Why don’t you try getting to know a few people before convincing them of lies?”  
  

               Sherlock scoffed, “You’re stifling me, John.”

                In response John hummed his agreement. Then he murmured, “What do you want to do today besides yell at small children?”

                “Nothing.”  
 

               John placed his chin on Sherlock’s chest so he could look at his face and suggested, “We could shag.”

                Interest flickered across Sherlock’s face but before he could respond someone else said, “I beg of you, don’t.”

                John had turned, grabbed his gun, and aimed it at the intruder before he could think. Sherlock groaned, “Oh for god’s sake Sherrinford! What the hell are you doing in England?”

                “I thought a visit was in order, brother dear.”

                John blinked at the tall, dark haired stranger relaxing in their bedroom doorway. Then he snapped, “Sherlock?”

                “It’s Sherrinford, John. Don’t waste your bullet on him. He’s already dead.”

                John put his gun away and scrubbed a hand over his face because all he’d wanted was to spend a lazy day shagging Sherlock. He glanced at _Sherrinford_ looking amused and twirling a cigarette between his fingers and decided that whoever he was John hated him. “Who the hell is Sherrinford?”

                Sherlock scowled, “My eldest brother. He’s supposed to be dead though and never set foot in England again.”

                “I need your assistance, brother.”

                “Shut-up.” John said sharply. Then he turned to Sherlock and said, “What do you mean you have another brother? Why didn’t you tell me? Oh my god. This is who took care of the guards for you isn’t it? This is why you never wanted to talk about it.”

                Sherlock sighed, “My brothers are tedious, John. I didn’t want to inflict another on you.”

                “You said he’s dead.” John said flatly. “Why does everyone we know come back from the dead?”

                “It’s hardly everyone. Irene did it twice and I did it once. Unless you count the time I literally died and my heart restarted. Sherrinford is a bit deader than we were.”

                John glanced over his shoulder at Sherrinford, who responded with a tight smile. It was honestly shocking how much that smile was Mycroft. He turned back to Sherlock and asked, “Why did he ‘die’ in the first place?”

                “Ask him. He’s right there.”

                “I don’t want to ask him. I want to ask you because you’ve been keeping this a secret, you git.”

                Sherlock’s sharp eyes focused on him suddenly and studied him. Then he stated, “You’re angry.”

                John gritted his teeth and bit out, “Good job. Talk.”

                Sherrinford chuckled, “I like him.” John responded with a rude gesture then focused on Sherlock.

                Sherlock’s mouth tightened and he shrugged, “Sherrinford is a few years older than Mycroft and even more brilliant. It really was too bad for England that Sherrinford wasn’t civic minded. He was an art forger. Probably he would have never drawn enough attention to himself to warrant faking his death, but he stole from someone… too important. The Queen was unamused. One thing led to another and Sherrinford was in trouble. Mycroft didn’t have enough sway in the government to manipulate things to exactly how he wanted it. Killing Sherrinford is what promoted Mycroft, actually.”

                “Were you and Sherrinford closer than you and Mycroft are?”

                “Of course not. I barely knew him. He was much older than I was and he died when he was young. I hadn’t spoken to him in years until this. I needed someone I could trust and who was acceptably brilliant. Sherrinford is a Holmes so he fit the bill.”

                “Why is Sherrinford’s death more permanent than yours or Irene’s?”

                “If Sherrinford is ever discovered to be alive, the British government will kill him and Mycroft will be arrested. Most likely for treason.”

                “My god. Who did your brother steal from?”

                “That is why I am here.” Sherrinford interrupted. “As I said, I need your assistance, brother mine.”

                “I decline.” Sherlock said haughtily and received a hit on the arm from John.

                Sherrinford smiled lazily and said, “You are not in a position to decline. I’m sure Dr. Watson would be happy to explain.”

                John shrugged, “Sherlock, he’s your brother”-

                “Oh god,” interrupted Sherrinford. “Not that. Didn’t you hear what he just said? As though Sherlock or I care about our familial connection. Good lord, he was just a boy when I left. No. I was referring to the fact that I assisted Sherlock when it came to Moriarty and your late wife.”

                Sherlock got out of bed and pushed past Sherrinford angrily. He muttered, “Oh yes, insult John, I’ll help out then.”

                “You don’t have a choice and you know it.” Sherrinford said sounding bored to death. There was the resemblance to Sherlock. “If you could please stop posturing and simply give in to your curiosity and listen I would appreciate it.”

                John stood up and said, “If you really want his help, then I suggest you shut-up.”

                Sherrinford smiled patronizingly at him and followed him out of the bedroom. Sherlock had slipped on a dressing gown that he had found somewhere, and was staring out the window. At their entrance though he turned and narrowed his eyes at his brother. John decided Sherlock had issues with his whole family and it wasn’t just Mycroft. Sherrinford looked amused and tutted, “We both know that you are going to assist me, Sherlock. This little cottage is lovely but admit that you’re going out of your mind with boredom. Everyone around you enjoying domestic bliss.” His gaze flickered over John and he added, “Yourself included.”

                “I’m experiencing domestic bliss, Sherrinford.” Sherlock bit out. “What makes you think I need a case?” Sherlock had been doing much better with boredom than John had anticipated. But the idea that Sherlock wouldn’t want a case that was clearly a ten was so funny that John nearly laughed out loud. He managed to hold it in, since he had a feeling Sherlock would be furious if he didn’t.  
 

               Sherrinford arched a brow, causing John’s face to flush as he realised for the first time what the eldest Holmes had surely witnessed. Sherlock remained impassive under the hint. “You are still you. Besides you owe me.” Sherlock shrugged. “Don’t make me tell Mummy.”

                “Oh! You always were a snitch!”

                “No, that was Mycroft.” Sherrinford countered calmly. “I just wasn’t above turning on you if it meant self-preservation.”

                “Yeah,” John piped up, “probably not the thing to say to get us to help.”

                “There is an immense difference between betraying one’s brother to Mummy and betraying one’s brother to a criminal.”

                “Oh my god! You’ve turned into a sodding romantic!”

                Sherrinford gestured to John and said, “Casting stones, brother.”

                John actually grinned at that, which caused Sherlock to flop on the sofa in a pout. John grinned a bit more because Sherlock had insisted he wasn’t buying that sofa for sulks. He had obviously bought it for sulks. John picked up Sherlock’s feet and sat with them resting in his lap. Looking at Sherrinford he said, “You may as well tell your story.”  Sherrinford was glaring at his brother so John said cheerfully, “He’s listening, don’t worry.”

                Sherrinford hesitated before sitting in Sherlock’s Sussex chair. John glanced at the chair that was supposed to be for clients in Sussex but didn’t say anything. Based on the devilish gleam in Sherrinford’s eye he didn’t need to. “I never expected to find myself in this position, but recent events have caused me to reconsider my exile.”

                John picked up his notepad from the table beside him, because it was generally a good idea to take notes when the Holmes’ spoke. He glanced at his own personal Holmes pretending not to listen on the sofa and grinned to himself. God only knew what trouble Sherrinford had gotten himself into, but John had a feeling Sherlock was going to get into more. As long as they were together it sounded fantastic to John.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is finished already and I'll post updates every Sunday.


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